


Their Lady Adyé

by DarkLadyAthara



Series: The Lady Adyé Series [4]
Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Deleted Scenes, Extended Scene, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Family Secrets, Growing Up, Lady Adyé Series, One Shot Collection, Star Wars One-shots, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 19:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 95,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkLadyAthara/pseuds/DarkLadyAthara
Summary: A series of one-shots from during, before or after stories of the Lady Adyé trilogy, which centre around Neva, Athara and Ana Adyé. Most of these one-shot will be alternate PoVs/scenes that, for one reason or another, didn't make it into Lady Amalia: The Almost-Queen, Lady Obscura: Little More than a Shadow or Lady Adyé: The Resistance Commander. Featuring Luke, Han, Obi-wan, Vader, Leia, and of course, Neva, Athara and Ana.They are not written or posted in chronological order!***If you haven't read either "Lady Amalia: The Almost-Queen" or "Lady Obscura: Little More than a Shadow", I very much recommend that you read them first as, not only will they likely not make a whole lot of sense otherwise, but some of the early instalments contain spoilers for the main stories.





	1. Fragments of a Shattered Past

**Author's Note:**

> I will only post a single disclaimer, and it is this: I do not own Star Wars, though I desperately wish I did.
> 
> I only own my own characters and the tweaks I have made :) If it wasn't in the Movies, it's mine. More than that, the only source I am considering indisputably Canon for the purposes of this story are the Films. However, there are the odd details inspired by the EU, the tv shows and so on.

The earth was cool and soft beneath her fingers as the sun shone down overhead. A small, satisfied smile lit her face as her deft fingers tended her flowers and plucked any invading weeds, keeping the gardens that surrounded her guesthouse healthy and thriving. She was immensely proud of her little place, and dutifully and passionately saw to its care almost solely on her own.

She had come to Naboo over fifteen years ago now, nearly twenty, although it had felt deep down like she had returned to the green little planet after a long absence. It felt like home in a way Alderaan never had. Sure, both planets were beautiful, and in many ways quite similar, but Naboo's lakes and rivers pleased her eye and her soul in a way Alderaan's mountains and crisp cool air never had. For several years she had lived in a little community a little ways north of Alderaan's Capital City, Aldera. It was lovely, and she had been sad to leave when the time came. But she had felt it was time.

Her friend Bail, who had really been one of her only visitors, had insisted on taking care of the arrangements, and had chartered a small ship to take her and her companion Sabé to Naboo, a planet where Sabé had said they had a past. Then she had tried desperately to remember what that past was, only to come up with a crushing feeling in her chest and a memory of great pain.

She'd had no memory before waking up in the Medical Facility on Alderaan in the little town where she had made her home when she had lived on that planet. The only thing she faintly recalled was the memory of hearing people speaking over her, their voices wending in and out of her focus, dampened and distorted as though she had been deep underwater. It was from those memories that she dimly heard what she then assumed to be her name. "—dme Am—" she had heard; _Dema_ , her semi-conscious mind had interpreted, _my name must be Dema, for they are speaking about me_ , "can be no mo—must beli—ildren wi—for her saf—but tha—wins." The rest had been little more than gibberish to her shattered mind.

But then, almost everything she had heard in those days had been garbled and distant.

The medical droids had explained that her memory loss likely stemmed from an immensely traumatic experience, something Sabé had inadvertently confirmed through her surreptitious glances and worried looks alone. Dema was also told that it would be better, healthier for her mind, if she were to remember on her own. The medical droid and the therapist from the medical centre had both pressed her companions to abstain from telling her too much about her past, to let her memories return on their own.

It was a torturous reality that she had begrudgingly resigned herself to bear. As time had passed, her past had begun coming back to her. She began to remember her parents' faces, that she had a sister and nieces, fleeting memories of her childhood room, her teachers, and her school friends. She had remembered Sabé, sort of, and others like her who had all been close. The names had been on the tip of her tongue, but she still hadn't quite been able to coax them past her lips.

Her memories taunted and teased her incessantly. Faces without names, names without faces, terms she had no idea what their importance was. She remembered law codes and charters, the proper way to address large bodies and small crowds effectively, and diplomatic niceties and appeasing rhetoric sometimes escaped her even in the most mundane of conversations. Yet she couldn't even remember why she had left Naboo—for she was relatively certain she had been born on the small planet—or why the necklace she always wore was so important to her, or why she dreamed of a handsome young man with a bright smile and serious blue eyes that always looked at her with an intensity that made her knees go weak and her heart thrum with delight.

She'd pushed all that away, though. Whatever she had been in the past, whoever she'd been, she wasn't that person anymore. Not without her memories. And she had learned quickly that she couldn't force them to return to her. She could coax them and slowly work them free of the fog that mired them away from her conscious mind, but it was slow work. Everyday she wandered through parts of Theed, stirring her memories as much as her conscious mind would let her before the wall of protection her subconscious had erected snapped painfully back into place.

Slowly but surely, fragments of her past life began to bind themselves together. Now, nearly twenty years on she had made remarkable progress. There were still great blank spaces in her memories, but she had long ago accepted that she might never know all the secrets her past held, painful or otherwise. Part of her refused to believe that she would never remember, but another part of her was far more pragmatic, and so she chose to make the most of her lot.

Upon returning to Naboo, she and Sabé, who now called herself Mina and posed as Dema's sister—to help protect them, she'd explained—had purchased a little place on the outskirts of Theed. Dema had loved it from the start, and had eagerly set about transforming it. Sabé/Mina had taken a job at one of the archive centres within the City, leaving Dema to focus her energy on recovering in both mind and spirit.

For those first few years on Alderaan Dema had felt broken, like something had shattered painfully within her. There was no other way for her to describe it. Neither did she know why she felt that way. She'd barely had the will to speak to anyone, to move, to eat. There had been entire days that were now lost to her, she'd been so confused and emotionally fragile. The answers obviously lay within the memories her subconscious hid from her. She had been wasting away, Sabé had said. She was suffering from a broken heart, she'd overheard Bail whispering to Sabé one day. Dema had puzzled that over in the years since she had come back to Naboo, and had come to the conclusion that he was right, after a fashion. She had absently wondered if the way her chest seemed to physically ache when she thought of the blue-eyed young man meant she had loved and lost him. But something deep down within her told her it was more than that; far more. She had lost so much more than the man she loved, a little voice would murmur to her. She wanted, no, needed to know what that voice meant. She needed to find what was missing in her life. It took time, but soon she had a will to live again. Slowly, the pieces of herself that had shattered along with her mind began aligning themselves, though they didn't yet fit together. It wasn't long after that that she had indicated that she felt she didn't belong on Alderaan. Evidently Bail and Sabé had taken her declaration as a positive sign of her recovery, for they had both seemed quite happy that she had said it.

Within a handful of years she had made the little house in Theed her own. The gardens flourished under her care, something that pleased her a great deal more than she had anticipated. But she needed more. It had taken some convincing, but a couple years after they had returned to Naboo, Dema insisted on having something more to devote her mind and energy toward, and Dema and Mina had decided to transform their little house into a guesthouse. It still wasn't quite enough, but it kept her busy with long, fruitful days and Dema was satisfied with caring for her guests.

But there was something else she was missing, that she was more desperate to remember than just about anything else. It was actually her body that first felt the loss, whatever it was, while she was still back on Alderaan. Part of her felt empty, like something more tangible than memory was missing. Her arms longed to hold something she didn't understand, that she couldn't remember.. Finally it was her subconscious that put the pieces together without Dema even realizing it.

"I'm a mother," she had absently said to Mina—still just Sabé, then—one afternoon as they'd sat in the sun overlooking Alderaan's mountains. Sabé hadn't answered, though her face tightened with pain and worry. She had refused to meet Dema's eyes, focusing instead on the way Dema had been fiddling with the fine chain of her necklace. It had been a confirmation to Dema in and of itself. Dema hadn't needed a confirmation, though. She knew she was right. It was a hole that she'd had in her heart that she'd just realized was there. She'd had a child—no, that wasn't quite right either, her instincts told her—she'd had children. And she didn't know where they were, or if they were all right.

It had taken her time, several years since coming to Naboo, before she made an important realization.

There had been a little girl on Alderaan, a little girl who had looked impossibly familiar. But where was the other, a little boy, her subconscious supplied, with sandy hair and his father's eyes. The little girl had had dark hair and darker eyes, and couldn't have been more than three or four years old at the time. A feeling of deep sorrow that Dema hadn't been able to name had come over her when Bail had brought the little girl with him on one of his visits. 'Leia', she'd whispered, her fingers lightly touching her pendant when she'd seen the girl walking nervously toward her, unsure exactly where that name had come from. Sabé and Bail had exchanged anxious glances, but neither had said a word.

The little girl was her daughter, Dema had recently concluded, though she hadn't told Mina she'd figured it out. A piece of her shattered mind had found its place, bringing her a step closer to being whole again. Her realization had been rewarded with a faint but powerful memory.

" _He keeps kicking," she had laughed in response to his concern. He had met her eye with a questioning look._

" _He? You think it's a boy?" She had laughed at his skepticism._

" _My motherly intuition," she had teased back, her hand tugging his to the spot where their baby was happily kicking away. It seemed pleased at its father's attention, and the kicks had intensified. She had laughed again at the joyfully incredulous expression on his face._

" _Whoa, with a kick that strong, it's got to be a girl!" he had declared, his vibrant blue eyes sparkling with joy._

She had been happy with him. But the realization only sparked her desire to know more. More than having her memories blocked by her own mind, the fact that she didn't know what had happened to her children tortured her. Her little girl had been happy and well cared for with Bail; that she instinctively knew. She had seen it in the way the girl had looked up at him and the fond way he had watched over her. Another part of Dema was nearly overcome with sorrow at the same realization, though. Bail was not her daughter's father, part of her wanted to scream, her father was—she still couldn't remember his name. More than that, she had no idea what had become of her little boy, a realization that distressed her greatly. It had been enough that she had sunk back into the despondency that had gripped her on Alderaan for a short while, though not nearly with the same intensity. It had worried Mina greatly.

When news of Alderaan's destruction had broken a few years after her realization, it had rocked the galaxy. Dema especially had been devastated. While she hadn't felt at peace on the peaceful planet, she had come to love it in a small way, especially after concluding that it was the home of her daughter. If realizing her child was no longer her own and that she didn't even remember the name of the man who fathered her child was enough to send her shattered mind diving back to despondency, believing her child was gone certainly was. The walls her subconscious had erected had strengthened against the progress she was making in dismantling them, though thankfully she hadn't lost any of her regained memories, which by then had become a substantial collection. It was only by clinging to the memory of her blue-eyed husband—she had come to the conclusion that that was precisely who the young man was—with his gentle hand resting against where their child kicked at her belly that she retained some semblance of sanity during that dark time.

It was Mina who had saved her. She had appeared in Dema's room one morning, carefully closing the door before coming to kneel in front of Dema, pressing a small datapad into her strengthless hands. After a great deal of coaxing, Dema had looked down to the datapad. What she saw there had yanked her out of her despondency far quicker than Mina had anticipated, startling her faithful companion.

She wilfully ignored that they were calls for the capture and arrest of important Rebel figures put out by the Empire, focusing instead on the fact that it was recently issued and on the faces it displayed. A few at the top she faintly recognized, like Mon Mothma and Orran Adyé, but it was not one but two in particular that set her heart racing in her chest. Leia she recognized in an instant, though she hadn't seen her since she was barely more than a toddler. Her vision blurred.

"She's alive," she had murmured absently, tracing a finger over the projection of her daughter's face as a feeling infinitely greater than relief surged through her. Somehow Mina had known that the secret grief at believing her daughter dead with Alderaan's destruction was what had sent Dema into her despair. Had she not already been sitting, she likely would have collapsed. But there was another face that caught her attention. The name beneath it sent her nerves tingling and her memory straining.

"Luke…" She hadn't even had to look to Mina to know the woman who had been posing as her sister had been watching her anxiously. "I know him," she said quietly. It was not a question. Only then had she'd looked up at Mina. "He's my son, isn't he," she'd asked. Slowly Mina had nodded. Dema's eyes had dropped back to the young man whose picture stared out at her from the datapad. He has his father's eyes, she remembered thinking. He'd grown to be so handsome. A wistful smile had come to her lips of its own accord, while her fingers rose to brush against her pendant. Another piece of her shattered self settled back into place as she stared at her son's face. He was alive too. They both were, and they were together. The notice had named them as associates.

"No one must know, Milady," Mina had said softly after a few long moments of Dema looking at the wanted notices for her children. She sometimes did that, calling Dema _Milady_ out of long ingrained habit when they were alone. Dema knew now that it was because she had once been an influential and important public figure for Naboo. She was long used to the nostalgic looks and curious glances she garnered when she walked about, but she paid it little mind most of the time. She also had remembered that Mina had, as Sabé, been her handmaiden and bodyguard and that she essentially still was. She hadn't been alone either. There had also been Dormé, Elle, Moteé, Neva and others before them; she remembered all of them now. In some respects, there was little she didn't remember anymore. Most of the pieces of her fractured mind had found their way back into place save the last few, critical pieces. On good days she could remember almost everything up until she left Naboo for Coruscant, bad days a little less. She remembered who she was, mostly. She was still shaky on her name, but knew from slips from Mina that she had once been known as Padmé. And she knew that the Galaxy believed her dead, though she couldn't yet comprehend why. Part of her didn't want to know. She still felt totally disconnected from her past, even though she had remembered most of it. It was as though she was remembering the plot of a novel she'd once read, not her own life; it felt like it didn't belong to her.

"I know," she had replied mournfully.

She was not oblivious. Her mind might still be fragile, but she still had her wits. She knew what was going on in the rest of the Galaxy, of the struggle between the Empire and the Rebel Alliance. Part of her rebelled at the very concept of Emperor Palpatine's New Order over the galaxy. Meanwhile another part of her felt intimately connected with the Rebellion. Had her life not been interrupted so completely by whatever event or series of events that had broken her, she could easily imagine she would have been a part of the initiative to restore the Republic. In fact, part of her did believe she had been a part of it. At least, some early incarnation of it. Part of her even now wished she were involved. She had tentatively and rather subtly suggested involving herself to Mina; so well, in fact, that Mina almost agreed before she had caught on to exactly what Dema had been suggesting.

It was the only time Dema had seen Mina look both truly frightened and genuinely angry. She had forbidden it, pointing out that they were in hiding, that Dema was still not fully recovered from her ordeal, that she would pose more risk to the Alliance than help, that they couldn't risk the consequences should it be discovered that Dema was still alive—Mina had abruptly cut herself off there. That was when Dema had truly understood her own situation; she had suspected the galaxy believed her dead, or that who she had been, at least, was dead, but now she knew for sure. A million different counter-arguments had sprung to mind, but the look in Mina's eyes had dissuaded her. She had also realized then that Mina had essentially given up her own chance at a life for her sake, to keep her safe as she regained herself; it was a sacrifice she'd had no desire to squander. Thus she had decided to stay on Naboo, at least for the time being.

She needed to be of use. Part of her desired more than anything to do something to help fight the tyranny that had spread throughout the Galaxy, even so far as to make its way to Naboo, threatening the planet she loved.

It was because of that desire that, when she met Obscura, she hadn't hesitated to help her.

The young woman had shown up on her doorstep, looking for lodgings. She had instantly looked familiar to Dema, though it had taken her some time to place just why. Though her hair was a lighter colour and she had blue-gray eyes that looked familiar for another reason, Dema's new guest had looked for all the galaxy like a woman from her past; Neva, once Princess of Theed, almost-Queen of Naboo and a friend and ally to Dema in her past life as Senator Amidala. She knew Neva was long dead, like many Dema had once known. She had pressed Mina for information on those she had considered friends once their names had returned to her. The Empire, as Mina had told her with a sad reluctance, had murdered Neva, along with her young child, for helping the Jedi. Obviously, Dema concluded with satisfaction, the child had survived, and had received training in the ways of the Force.

Though there was obviously a great deal that the young woman was hiding, especially given that she had provided Dema with what was likely a false name, she trusted the girl, and did everything she could to help her. There was something in her face that Dema intimately understood; that this woman searched for answers seemed obvious to Dema. Her suspicions had been confirmed when the newcomer had asked after the best places to go in order to find someone on Naboo.

She had also recognized the young woman for another reason. In the weeks prior to her arrival on Dema's door, Imperial troops had been pouring into the Garrison east of Theed. More than that, her face and name had been posted all over the city along with the caption " _By Order of His Imperial Highness, Emperor Palpatine, the Dark Lady Obscura is to be apprehended. Use extreme caution; she is highly dangerous. Do not approach, but inform the nearest Imperial agent._ " She could believe the dangerous part. The girl known as Obscura—Dema still didn't know her true name—had moved with the same measured grace and had the same perceptive look in her eyes that Dema dimly remembered in the Jedi she had once known; that she'd been close with a few Jedi was still a relatively newly regained set of memories. That this girl was Force-sensitive seemed almost immediately obvious to Dema. Memories that still hid from her teased Dema as she spoke to the young woman. There was something else about her, someone other than Neva that she reminded Dema of, though she couldn't manage to place it.

It was partially because of the way that Obscura piqued her still shrouded memories that she had followed the young woman the next day. That and the part of Dema that longed for some sort of way to be a part of the greater fight. That this woman was no longer a servant of the Empire as she had once been was blatantly clear to Dema, and not just because of the calls for her capture. The girl's presence had made her a little nervous at first, given that she knew Obscura had once been Darth Vader's shadow, but that apprehension soon melted away. Though she hid it well, there was always a glint in her eye and a particular way she spoke that told Dema she despised the Emperor; it surprised Dema at first how easily she was able to read the girl, but then she remembered her realization that she had known and been close to several Jedi.

That she wanted to keep an eye on Obscura turned out to be a good thing. Just as Dema had feared, the young woman, despite her care and skill at moving about unnoticed, had been spotted and recognized. Even knowing Mina would be furious that she took the risk, Dema had intervened, helping Obscura to slip away from the Stormtroopers chasing her out of pure reflex. Then, as she had been keeping out of sight with Dema, the younger woman had gotten the bright idea to sneak into the Imperial Garrison. Without hesitation, Dema had resolved to go with her even though she thought the idea was mad. But, even without all her memories to tell her so, Dema knew she was not one to sit out. She could see Obscura's logic, and understood her desire to find any way to help the fight against the Empire. So Dema had broken into the Garrison with the former Imperial agent.

Of course things had invariably gone wrong, and ultimately Obscura had been captured, but not before she had pressed a datachip containing intelligence to help the Alliance into Dema's hands. _You say you are no friend of the Empire? Prove it now_. The young woman's words were echoed through Dema's mind even now and the intense, determined look in her eyes was burned into her thoughts. From there she had given herself as a diversion, allowing Dema to sneak out of the Garrison, though not before Dema had promised to tell the girl about her mother. The way Obscura had reacted when Dema had brought up Neva confirmed in her mind that the girl was who Dema thought she was.

She only hoped the girl would survive and return to find out more.

Dema had taken some time to wander the city before returning home out of an instinctual sense of caution to ensure that she hadn't been followed. Mina had been waiting anxiously for her when she had finally returned. She had begun admonishing her when she discovered where Dema had been, but her words dried up when Dema had interrupted her with the revelation that Obscura was Neva's child. Mina had known Neva too, and had also counted her a friend. Then Dema had shown Mina the datachip. Upon seeing it, Mina made a confession.

Dema couldn't say she was entirely surprised when Mina had confided that she had been a part of the Underground Nabooian branch of the Rebel Alliance for many years already. But Dema couldn't deny that she was hurt by the confession. She had longed for years to be a part of the Alliance herself, something Mina had always denied her. She understood why and, no doubt had their positions been reversed, Dema couldn't deny that she likely would have done the same, especially as she couldn't deny she was a liability with her mental state as it was.

But, as Mina—going by Sabé again among the other Rebels—was a member of the Alliance, she would be able to get the datachip to the Alliance much faster than Dema could going through the channels Obscura had suggested. Sabé knew Commander Adyé personally and had promised Dema she would deliver the chip into his hands herself.

Sabé left that evening. It was several days before she returned.

But then one day, a couple days after Sabé had left—the day, she later learned, that the Emperor had died—she had felt him. It was a strange sensation and a feeling that she equated with the ones the Jedi she'd known had always spoken of; a presence that lingered by her side as though sitting beside her. She remembered then. She remembered him. The final piece of her fractured self nestled back into place. Her hand rose to grip the Japor snippet, holding it tight.

"Anakin," she'd said quietly, her words like a sigh.

She remembered everything.

In the space of a moment Padmé had run the gamut of emotions that had been pent up inside her along with her buried memories; pain, sorrow, rage, heartbreak, betrayal, frustration, grief…love. She finally remembered how she had fallen in love with him, how they had married, that he had been haunted by visions of her death giving birth to their child. She remembered with agony the way Palpatine had destroyed the Republic she had loved and twisted and corrupted the man she had given her heart and soul to, using his fear and pain against him until he had become a dark reflection of her husband. She remembered her fear and grief at watching the Jedi Temple burn, a tangible indication that the galaxy she had known was burning down around her as she watched helpless and unable to stop it. She remembered the anguished feeling of betrayal at the way he had turned on her on Mustafar. She remembered the insane rage in his eyes as he looked to Obi-wan where he'd stood on the ramp of her ship. She remembered giving birth to their children without him, crushed and heartsick at everything he had done. It had been the final blow that had shattered her.

She remembered that the man who had attacked her and her unborn children on Mustafar hadn't been Anakin.

She knew that the presence beside her was.

She knew what it meant that he was beside her but not.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized that her Ani had come back to her but that she would never see him again, never feel his arms around her, never get to look into his crystal-blue eyes as she told him she loved him again, and that she forgave him.

A faint breeze brushed against her cheek, and she could have sworn it was his touch. She began speaking, then, not quite realizing she had until the words were pouring out of her mouth. She spoke of the good memories she had of them and of her life since waking broken and memory-less on Alderaan. She told him of what she had heard said over her semi-conscious form; _Padmé Amidala can be no more. The Emperor and Vader must believe she is dead, and her children with her, not just for her safety, but that of her twins_ , someone had said. The words had come back to her with her memories.

She told him of how her memories had returned to her, how Bail and Sabé had helped her. Everything poured out of her and she knew he was listening intently, and could swear she felt the devastating intensity of his sorrow and remorse when she spoke of the dark times he had caused her. She knew him well enough to know he would have been weeping with guilt as she told him what she could remember of their children's birth, and how Obi-wan and Neva had been there to help her through, how Neva had all but shamed her away from letting herself die. She could feel his wonder when she spoke of meeting their daughter on Alderaan, though she hadn't realized it at the time, and was sure that he was pleased that she had helped Obscura here on Naboo.

He stayed with her, even long after her voice gave out and she fell silent. They had sat together in her garden, watching the sun set. Even though she could not see him or feel him in any real, physical sense, she knew his fingers covered hers where they rested on the bench.

They were together again and, for that one perfect moment, it was enough.

It was a couple of days later that Sabé had returned, and when she did she was practically exploding with joy.

"Palpatine is gone!" she had repeated over and over as she embraced Padmé, tears of relief and elation streaming down her cheeks. Padmé soon found herself crying too. But she had known already; most of the Galaxy had known within hours of the Emperor's death that they were finally free of him. Everything had changed. The entire city of Theed had practically swarmed onto the streets to celebrate. It had been a long time since Padmé had seen her people so happy.

More than that, she had changed. Sabé noticed almost right away that something was different. Sabé had burst into tears again when she realized just what had changed about her friend; Dema was gone, and Padmé had returned.

Eventually she imagined that she would reveal to her family that she had survived, especially now that the Emperor was gone, but for now she was still getting used to being herself again. For now she was content to tend to her guesthouse and her garden in peace; a state she hadn't truly known before the events on Mustafar and Polis Massa.

As she stood from the patch of her garden she had been looking after, stretching out her aging muscles and brushing back a loose strand of her gently silvering hair, a soft chime came from the front door. With a small, satisfied smile at the work she had done and curiosity blooming at who her new guests might be, she ducked inside, heading for the front door. The faint hope that it was Obscura surfaced as it always did when she heard new arrivals ringing the chime and she reluctantly pushed it aside.

She actually laughed with delight when she saw who it was.

"You came back," she exclaimed. Standing in front of her was Obscura, looking tired but eager as she stood on the stoop. Padmé was finally able to place what else was so familiar about the young woman as she steadily met Padmé's gaze. She had Obi-wan's eyes, Padmé realized with a twinge of sadness that still managed to mingle with delight. It pleased her to realize that Neva had gone with Obi-wan, and that they'd had some time together before Neva had been killed. Obscura nodded slowly, hesitation suddenly evident in her posture.

"I did," she replied quietly. Padmé smiled kindly and welcomed her inside. With a small smile the younger woman stepped inside. It was then Padmé realized that she wasn't alone. A young man had come with her. Her heart nearly stuttered in her chest as she took in the sandy blonde hair and clear blue eyes that looked back at her. Even if she hadn't seen a holo of him before, she would have recognized him in a heartbeat.

"Luke," she breathed, drawing startled looks from both the young man standing in front of her and Obscura. They exchanged a brief startled look before they both turned back to Padmé. Then Luke's eyes narrowed, and Padmé recognized the thoughtful look that passed over his face as one her husband used to get when he was listening to the Force around him. Before she could stop herself, she began reaching toward him, though she hesitated short of actually touching his cheek.

"You look so much like Anakin," she didn't even realize she had spoken until Luke started back from her, his eyes wide with bewilderment. Obscura's hand closed about Padmé's arm as she spun the older woman around, looking just as astonished as Luke as she met Padmé's dark eyes.

"How do you know that?" she sputtered, stumbling over the words in her anxiousness to ask. Padmé couldn't help the sad smile that came over her face.

"I've known Anakin since he was a boy," the former senator said, unable to hide the wistfulness in her voice. A faint frown creased Obscura's face as she processed what Padmé said.

"Who are you," she finally asked, her tone sharper than Padmé suspected was her intent. Luke stepped forward, a look in his eyes that sent a shock of nerves through the former Senator.

"Athara," he murmured absently, a hand landing on the arm that still clung to Padmé's sleeve. Padmé glanced to Athara, distantly pleased that she finally knew Neva's daughter's real name; she obviously hadn't liked it when Padmé called her Obscura the last time she'd been here. Taking a calming breath, Athara withdrew her hand, though she didn't drop her intent gaze.

"Who are you," the young woman repeated quietly. Padmé took a deep breath. It was the moment of truth. She had imagined this moment, of meeting her son and revealing who she was to him, a hundred times and had prepared a thousand things to say. Nothing she had prepared seemed right.

"You met me as Dema," she started, her voice trembling a little at first, "I have been known by many names, some of which you may have heard before. For a time I was Queen Amidala of Naboo, then I was Senator Padmé Amidala of the Galactic Republic. Then I was dead to the Galaxy, known only as Dema. But my true name, the name I have longed to bear but never had a chance to own, is Padmé Naberrie Skywalker."


	2. The Lady Captain or the Sith Apprentice?

Something was bothering Luke. Really bothering him. Han could see in the set of the Kid's shoulders and the tightness around his mouth. He was hiding it well. Very well. It would have been written all over his face, once. Han had to fight back a smile at the memory of Luke when they'd first met. He'd been so young and naïve then; foolishly idealistic and impulsive. He hadn't lost his idealism, though it was less brash now, and his eagerness had been tempered.

By Bespin, Han realized, his grin fading. Bespin held ghosts for all of them now, Luke not least of all. Luke confronted Vader there and lost more than his hand. Judging by the hint of reserve in the young Jedi's eyes, he'd lost what was left of his innocence. Luke wouldn't talk about it, though he had been perfectly willing to listen to Han when the smuggler had been struck with the strange urge to spill his guts over what had happened on Cloud City.

Han glanced over the console of the Imperial shuttle again, knowing full well that everything was fine. It was a habit: one never knew when the _Falcon_ was going to act up, so it was best to always be on guard. Apparently it didn't matter what ship he was in. He was stuck with the habit.

It had to be Tamara. She was what had changed his young friend. Han hazarded a quick glance to Luke. The sandy-haired man was relaxed in his seat, eyes closed and face still; meditating he'd said, before falling into what looked almost like a nap to the former smuggler. But it wasn't. There was a calm focus to Luke's features that told Han it certainly wasn't sleep. He scoffed to himself. Who'd have thought that he'd believe in the Force of all things. After all the strange stuff he'd seen in the Galaxy, he'd never put much stock in the Force. Now? Well, Bespin happened. Seeing Vader deflecting a blaster bolt with a gesture? His blaster flying into Vader's outstretched palm? Tamara—no—Athara pushing Leia back into her chair with only a thought? Before anything strange from Luke he’d always managed to rationalize away. Well, he didn't exactly believe now, but he didn't doubt anymore either.

He also couldn't quite believe Athara was Vader's apprentice. A bitter, sick feeling bloomed in his stomach, just as it did every time he thought about his friend. Could he even still call her that? She belonged to Vader. She couldn't be, could she?

Han couldn't help the flashes of memory trying to convince him she was. His years as a smuggler had made him a fairly good judge of character. That's why, against all odds and his better judgment, he'd gone along with the old man's plan on the first Death Star; for some reason he'd trusted Kenobi, and Han had long ago learned not to trust easily.

There was that look on her face. The sick feeling eased. When Leia had torn off Obscura's hood to reveal Tamara—no, it was Athara, he had to keep reminding himself—there was that look. Well, not even a look, really. Her face had been cold and blank, unnatural looking compared to the lively expressions and teasing looks he'd grown used to. But her eyes had been tortured. He'd seen that then. Like with Luke, he'd known—or thought he'd known—her well enough that he could read the Lady Captain as well as anyone else. Her jaw had been clenched in what seemed like pain, no matter that her face and her voice had been unreadable. He'd known how good she was at hiding her true feelings; he'd seen her interacting with Alliance brass, with Leia, smugglers, pirates, dealers, Imperials and more. He knew she could bluff and misdirect and hide herself with the best. That he'd been able to pick out her misery even with her reactions and expression schooled as they were? He supposed it could have all been an act, but his instincts urged him to think otherwise.

She cared about them. She legitimately cared about them as her friends, he concluded. Even Leia, who he knew Athara wasn't keen on—for good reason, he understood now. She had to. There was no faking that expression. And the careful, wary way Vader had been watching her and Leia's interaction? Han hadn't missed that. Perhaps the Dark Lord didn't trust Athara anymore either.

Was it possible Athara was still on their side?

According to the Kid, Chewie and Lando she was. Chewie had given him a full account of what had happened on Bespin after he'd been frozen—a shudder rippled inadvertently through him at _that_ particular memory—and how Athara had appeared in Luke's X-wing to pick off the TIE-fighters harrying the _Falcon_. And Lando had confessed that his plan for freeing Chewie and Leia had initially come from Athara's pointed suggestion. Luke had quietly pointed out that Artoo's knowledge of the deactivated hyperdrive had come from N3, Athara's droid. And the way she had confronted Fett in the carbon freeze facility? And the fact that the Mandalorian had backed down? That revelation had nearly floored Han. No one intimidated Fett to back down. If her actions on Bespin weren't proof…but the suspicious part of him couldn't help but consider that it was all a ploy on her part to regain their trust…while his gut was inclined to dismiss that distrust.

Han glanced back at Luke again.

There was something between them. He'd been wondering since that first trip to Nubia. Oh, then it had obviously been nothing but interest, especially on Luke's side. But since then…well, Han knew the signs. Luke had fallen head first for the Lady Captain since then and, if Han was any judge, which he knew he was, Athara had fallen for the Kid right back. Plus, if what Chewie had told him was anything to go by, something had definitely happened wherever the two of them had disappeared to after Hoth because first Luke had stuck out his neck for Vader's sidekick when she'd rejoined the fleet after Bespin—despite her anxious protestations, apparently—and second they had apparently been very obviously involved on Tatooine.

It was about time….

Han fought back an ironic grin at the thought. Here he was trying to figure out if he could even still trust Athara and yet he was pleased that she and the Kid had finally stopped circling each other.

It would certainly make sense that it was something to do with Athara that was bothering Luke. Come to think of it, Han was a little surprised that Athara hadn't shown up for this mission or the offensive. It had become rather clear to him a long time ago that she had no love for the Empire, despite the events on Bespin. Perhaps it was because she was still not in the Alliance's good books? No, that didn't sit right. Han nearly shook his head at the thought. Athara wouldn't sit back from something as important as this mission just because a couple of bureaucrats didn't like her. Well, it certainly would have been handy to have her along, especially given her past as an Imperial.

He'd read over some of the intelligence she'd given them during her time in Alliance custody, while Han had been frozen. It was substantial. It was also rather enlightening. Han had barely been able to wrap his head around just how high up in the Empire's hierarchy she'd been. When she was still with the Empire, she could have walked onto any ship and taken complete command, that's how powerful and how influential a position she’d held. For her to turn her back on all of that? It was mind-blowing. Especially given how tied emotionally she seemed to be to Vader. Her abject refusal to give the Dark Lord up had rubbed Han the wrong way at first, but given what had apparently been revealed when Athara had been brought before the Alliance Council and High Command? Chewie had also told him about what Athara had inadvertently revealed that day. Vader had raised her, and apparently Vader had defied the Emperor in not delivering Athara to him but instead allowing her to go into hiding. That had to say something about their relationship, right? And at the same time, apparently she'd been doing just about everything she could to keep Luke out of Vader's hands, nearly giving herself up on Hoth and getting shot on Bespin to do so. It was nearly enough to give Han a headache.

Next to him, Chewie rumbled out a question that Han was nearly too preoccupied to hear. He shook his thoughts loose, flashing his co-pilot a quick grin.

"Nah, Chewie. I'm just thinking. Trying to figure out Tama—I mean, Athara." He paused, glancing yet again to Luke to make sure he was still out before turning to Chewie, keeping his voice low, "you really think she's still on our side?" Chewie gave Han a steady look before nodding solemnly but emphatically, and launching into a quick list of the evidence as he saw it that she hadn't actually betrayed them. It sounded rather like the one Han had just been contemplating. Han soon found himself nodding absently along, unable to argue anything the wookiee said.

"She let me have her arrested," Han nearly jerked around in his surprise at Leia's soft voice. She wasn't looking at him, instead staring without focusing at the back of Chewie's seat. Han frowned at the tone. He'd never heard her so sedate when talking about Athara. In his short time since being thawed, Han had quickly discovered not to bring up Vader's apprentice in the Princess' presence. Usually her eyes would flash angrily or she would launch into her own list demonstrating that Athara had betrayed them. Han knew what drove it; pain, guilt, grief. Athara was the only one Leia had who had been there on the Death Star that she could blame for what happened, the only one she readily had to blame for Bespin. Really, Athara was a scapegoat for Leia, only Leia was too stubborn to admit it.

"I had expected her to fight it, but she didn't. She all but asked to be arrested. I didn't believe that she would actually give us what she did on the Empire, and I certainly didn't believe it would all be real intelligence. I was so sure she'd play us. And she gave the Alliance the Tantive IV. Just gave it to us. She never had to admit that she had it; no one would have ever known. But she did." Leia's voice shook for a moment at the name of the ship that was her last link to her Homeplanet, but she quickly forced herself to recover. She sounded like she didn't quite know what to make of what she'd seen in Athara since Bespin. But then her voice hardened again.

"But then she ran."

"You know why she did that, Leia." Han nearly jumped again as Luke's tranquil voice joined the conversation. Han peered around at the aspiring Jedi. He hadn't moved, his eyes still closed in meditation, but something in his demeanor had changed that indicated he was awake. Leia's eyes were focused intently on Luke, but he either didn't notice or wasn't reacting. After a moment he shifted, his eyes opening to glance at Leia. "Ever since she joined the Alliance, she's been trying to make up for everything she's done.  You have no idea of the guilt that she carries, hidden away from everyone. The Emperor had the family that took her in as a baby on Vader's order killed to punish her; she blames herself for that. She blames herself for Bespin; you have no idea the effect being prevented from rescuing Han had on her." Han was about to interject, reminding them that he was right there, but Leia was already rejoining, her voice growing hard and sharp.

"I was not about to risk Han's safety on her conscience, Luke."

"She was willing to get him by herself, Leia. She was willing to take on Jabba by herself to get Han out. You know what happened on Bespin wasn't her fault. I know, even she knows, but she feels responsible anyway."

"And so she should."

"Leia," Luke implored, somehow managing to keep his voice level and calm. Han had to admit he was impressed. Luke rarely seemed to get into it with Leia, but when he had in the past it had been nearly as messy as when Han and Leia bickered. Somehow he was able to keep his cool, and Han could tell it was unnerving Leia. She was used to always sounding like the rational one, thanks to her history as a senator and an Alderaanian princess. But she was also stubborn. As though determined not to be outdone by Luke, she sounded just as calm and rational when she spoke.

"Luke, you weren't there. On Bespin or on the Death Star. You haven't seen her as Obscura. There was no humanity in her."

"Of course there was, Leia. Nothing is so simple as you're trying to make it sound. She'd been trained since she was a child to deny her compassion, her morality. She was raised to show no mercy. She was raised to survive. Had she stood up to Vader on Bespin he might have killed her, no matter his protectiveness toward her—he nearly did on Hoth when he discovered she had joined the Alliance—and then how would she have been able to help any of us. The Death Star was no different. You heard her in front of the Council; Alderaan was never supposed to have been destroyed. How was she supposed to stop something that wasn't supposed to happen? As it was, Vader let her go when the Emperor had decided she was to be brought before him, because of what she did in her pain when Alderaan was destroyed.

"She still has nightmares about that day. Alderaan haunts her, just as it does you, Leia." Leia was silent, her gaze once again fixed on the back of Chewie's seat. Luke just watched her, his expression faintly troubled. "That's why she's fighting so hard against the Empire. She's trying to atone for the past, even for actions that were not her own." The cockpit fell silent, no one quite willing to break the silence. Luke lifted his gaze to stare past Han, out the shuttle's viewport.

"If she wants to fight the Empire so badly, where is she now," Leia finally asked quietly, posing the same question that Han had been debating whether or not to ask, though there was a distinct accusatory note to her question that wouldn't have been in Han's. The troubled expression on Luke's face deepened. After a long moment he sighed heavily, his worry plain to see.

"She was supposed to meet up with me back at the Fleet. We'd heard the rumours about the second Death Star from her contacts on Corellia and she was insisting on joining the offensive, no matter what I said to try and dissuade her. I was afraid the Alliance would insist on arresting her again. When we went our separate ways on Tatooine, she insisted she would be there when I made it back, that once she was done with her business on Naboo she'd rejoin the Alliance herself," he shook his head slowly, "Something must have happened." Han frowned, Luke's worry apparently contagious. So that's what was bothering him. Chewie was the first to try reassuring him, earning a frown from Leia and a faint, appreciative smile from Luke.

On the shuttle's console, the hyperdrive's primary display began blinking, a soft accompanying pinging signalling that they were approaching their destination. Han cleared his throat, pushing aside all thought of Athara's apparent disappearance. He could hear Leia and Luke both shifting behind them, Leia turning to the internal comm system to let the company in the back of the shuttle know they were about to drop out of hyperdrive.

Letting out a long breath, Han exchanged one last glance with Chewie before reaching for the control to drop the ship out of lightspeed.

"Here we go," he couldn't help but mutter to himself, pulling back on the lever.


	3. Anything But a Monster?

Leia knew that she'd told Han that Luke was okay, and the quiet little part of her that was so certain hadn't wavered in that conviction since then. But she still worried. She trusted that feeling—just like she had on Bespin, when it told her where to find Luke—no matter that she didn't entirely understand why. And given the conversation she and Luke had before he went off on his own?

The idea that Luke was her brother seemed like it should have felt foreign or strange, but it didn't. It felt like the most natural thing in the Galaxy. It explained a lot, really, like the instinctive way she'd trusted him on the Death Star, when he'd first appeared in the door to her cell. She'd never doubted him, not even when it came to his irrational belief in Athara Adyé. She couldn't understand how he could trust her. She'd been an Imperial agent, Vader's Right Hand. She'd proved that, to Leia at least, time and time again. Yet he was so sure Obscura could be trusted.

He loved her. A flicker of worry that was becoming distressingly familiar to Leia went through her when she thought about it. It had become increasingly obvious as time passed that Luke loved Athara, and that worried Leia. Her head told her that Athara was dangerous and that Luke should be backing swiftly away from her. Her heart was a little more conflicted. But she couldn't deny that it seemed Athara loved him too. It was frustrating and infuriating and Leia didn't like it.

But right now, the worrying thought of Luke's feelings for Vader's apprentice were completely overshadowed by the worrying reality that Luke still hadn't been heard from. He should have made it back by now. Their strike team that had been sent to disable the shield generator had already returned to the treetop village that Leia, Han, Luke, Chewie and the droids had spent the previous night in. Their little allies were even now, according to Threepio, working to prepare a feast to celebrate their victory. They were all so convivial and overjoyed in their victory that Leia couldn't help but get caught up in the moment, once again donning the garments they had made for her and settling in to help them prepare. But now, as her hands were busy but her thoughts free to roam, the worry for Luke had returned, not giving Leia a moment's peace.

She couldn't stop. Even if she hadn't discovered he was family, she would have been worried. Could the little feeling be wrong?

No. It wasn't. Even as the doubting thought ran through her head for the thousandth time, the certain little part of her confirmed he was all right. And it proved itself by prompting Leia to look up and around to the edge of the clearing on the forest floor where Leia, Han, Chewie and their furry friends were working.

And there he was. Emerging from the shadows cast by the dimming evening light. The sense of relief that flooded through the former Senator was such that the instant she tried to stand her legs failed to obey her, feeling weak and wobbly. She hadn't thought she'd been worrying quite that much. But then why wouldn't she have? He had left their mission to confront Vader and, presumably, the Emperor himself. Vader easily could have killed him the instant Luke walked into his presence. And who knows what the Emperor could have done to him; what the Emperor had done to him. Leia had to fight back a powerful shudder at the thought.

He was here, safe. Her brother—it still felt so strange yet so natural to call him that—was safe. Though the dimming light and uniformly black clothes he was wearing did wash out his normally warm-toned skin, Leia couldn't help but notice that he looked pale. A small shiver of worry resurfaced. As soon as he caught sight of the group gathered by the huge bases of the trees that held the village aloft, he was making his way toward them. As he got closer, Leia realized he was scanning the gathered Alliance members and locals. With a smile beginning to break through her worry, Leia started to extricate herself from the cluster of their new friends hemming her in where she had been working, relieved that her legs seemed to be working properly again.

As Luke reached the group he looked right past her.

It was like he hadn't even seen her, which, she realized, given that she was surrounded by their furry little allies preparing for the feast, he probably hadn't. But his anxious gaze—when had she noticed that he was anxious?—went almost immediately to the former smuggler just behind her, where he was helping to bundle up kindling for the planned bonfires.

"Han," he practically exhaled, his relief evident. Leia frowned in confusion, her expression matching Han's. "I need your help." Han's expression turned serious as Luke all but wavered on his feet, looking exhausted. In an instant the smuggler-turned-General was on his way to Luke's side. Not one to be left behind, Leia was quick to follow, her own worry reaching crushing heights. Neither made it to Luke's side before he was dashing back into the brush.

Exchanging a brief look, they chased after him, Han hesitating only for a moment when he tried to get Chewie's attention, but the wookiee was too far away. Practically growling in frustration, Han gave up, crashing through the brush after Luke, Leia close on his heels. The Jedi didn't answer their called questions or appeals to slow down, single-mindedly rushing back the apparent way he'd come.

It felt like an eternity of clambering across the forest floor before they were able to catch up to Luke. Around them the forest was growing dark, though it was still some time until true night would set in. The huge trees brought night early this far into the forest. And it was quiet. Oddly quiet, though Leia suspected that might just be because of the racket she and Han were making as they chased after Luke; either they were startling the local wildlife into silence or the woods around them seemed quiet in comparison because they were so loud.

Leia nearly stopped in her tracks as they finally reached their destination. It was an Imperial shuttle. It caused her to double-take at first, wondering if they could have really covered enough ground to reach the shuttle they'd arrived on the Sanctuary Moon in. She shook her head to clear that thought away. There was no chance they'd reached their own stolen shuttle already. This was a different shuttle, probably the one Luke had escaped the Death Star in. It was newer, but certainly not in better shape than the one they'd arrived in. It looked like it had just barely survived the explosion that had destroyed the Emperor's battlestation. Leia fought back a panicked sound, allowing her rational side to regain dominance. Luke was here and safe. Obviously the shuttle hadn't been too severely damaged otherwise he wouldn't be currently climbing back up the boarding ramp. That damage was also probably why it took him so long to make it back to the moon's surface. Exchanging another look with Han, the two of them followed, Han easily pulling ahead with his longer stride to rush up the ramp before Leia was even close.

When Leia stepped inside the shuttle she froze for real, her eyes fixed firmly on the large black form lying prone in the centre of the passenger compartment. Instinctively she knew he was dead, but Leia couldn't help the way the sight of Vader made her want to run. It took everything she had not to start shaking like a leaf. It was then that she registered that the horrible mask that haunted her nightmares was lying by the former Dark Lord's side. Yet she couldn't make herself look at him, focusing instead on the inactive lights and indicators on his chestplate but no higher. She couldn't manage to look at the face behind the mask…even knowing now who he really was…her fath—

"Leia, can you grab the medkit? Leia?" She was snapped from her near panic-attack at the concerned sound of Han's voice. It took a great deal of effort to pull her gaze from the hulking black body over to where Han and Luke were huddled beside the row of seats that lined the perimeter of the compartment, anxious words passing between them that Leia couldn't quite register. Barely thinking, she did as Han asked, digging out the medkit that was stashed on the bulkhead near the boarding ramp entryway. As she skirted around Vader's body, oh so careful not to touch him, she finally saw what had Luke and Han so preoccupied.

"What is she doing here?" Luke and Han's startled faces swung around to look at Leia, though she was just as startled by the cold, angry sound of her own voice as they were. She wasn't about to take it back, though. Seeing first Vader and now Obscura was bringing up way too many horrible memories, sparking her temper as a means to push her panic aside. Luke started to stand, to explain, but he didn't quite make it to his feet, his exhaustion flickering over his features as he gave up and remained seated near Athara's head. But that didn't stop him from steadily meeting Leia's gaze. Han shot him a worried glance before turning his attention back to Vader's apprentice, digging through the kit, looking for anything he could to use to help the woman in front of him.

She looked bad. Her skin was so pale it was nearly colourless save for a livid bruise blooming along her jawline. She looked like she was barely breathing, her hand limp as a rag when Han moved it to place the kit's diagnostic scanner on her chest.

"She was on the Death Star, Leia. Palpatine had her." Leia's jaw dropped and fury threatened to flood through her. Her rationality was in serious danger of abandoning her altogether. Han was speaking softly to Luke, reading out what the scanner was displaying when Leia interrupted.

"It looks like there's no real damage, but she's dangerously weak. What happe—"

"She was with Palpatine? That's where she was?"

"Leia, she was captured on Naboo. She was his priso—" Luke's voice was quiet but pleading, but Leia wasn't having any of it. Han paused in the middle of dosing Athara with a stim-shot, shooting Leia a wary, concerned look. She didn't even notice, her attention was wholly on Luke. Deep down she knew it was wrong-headed of her to go off the way she was, but she was nearly frantic in her frustration and angry bewilderment.

"That's enough, Luke! I don't understand! How can you continue to trust her? After everything she's done, after the number of times she happens to find herself in Vader's or the Emperor's company, how? How can we know why she was on the Second Death Star? How can we know she wasn't working with Palpati—"

"No," Luke interrupted, his tone powerful despite its softness, silencing Leia more effectively than if he'd yelled. The compartment was silent for a long, drawn-out moment, Leia and Han staring at Luke in astonishment. Luke, meanwhile, had dropped his gaze to Athara's still features, brushing back a few wayward strands of hair from her face before looking up to Leia again. When he continued he sounded so tired, the quiet authority gone, his face haunted as he spoke, "no, the only reason he had her, that he kept her alive was to torture Vader and to hurt me. Palpatine's plan was for me to first kill Vader and then kill her, to prove my loyalty to him once he convinced me to turn, to sacrifice someone I cared about to complete my transformation to the Dark Side. She was dangerous to him, Leia. She was a threat to him. More than that, he knew that I love her. And he knew Vader loved her." Leia couldn't help the scoff of disbelief that escaped her. Luke leveled her with an earnest look.

"Yes, Leia, he loved her. He believed me—we—were gone, dead; killed, even. Then he found her and took her in. She became the most important person in his life until he found out that I survived, that we survived."

"Wait—we?" Leia and Luke both turned at Han's bewildered interruption. Han had paused again, looking up from the readings on the diagnostic scanner. "Who's we? What are you talking about?" Leia could feel the blood leaving her face at the question. She'd accepted the truth that Luke was her brother, her twin, before she'd even heard it from his lips, before she'd even realized she'd accepted it. But accepting that Vader—no, she couldn't do it. Images flickered behind her eyes; Vader's form standing in the door of her cell; the glistening tip of the interrogation droid's needle as it approached; the emptiness beyond the viewscreen of the Death Star where her home had once hung, jewel-like, amid the darkness of space; Vader standing cloaked in steam and exhaust as the carbon-freeze mechanism shrieked in harmony with the scream she'd somehow managed to hold in. She desperately fought the urge to look down to the black-clad body lying nearly at her feet. No matter that she somehow knew it was as true as Luke's relation to her, she refused to accept it. Bile burned in her throat at the thought. Luke met her gaze with sympathy before turning to Han.

"Darth Vader, before he was seduced and corrupted by the Dark Side of the Force, was a Jedi named Anakin Skywalker. He was my father." Luke finally said softly, steadily meeting Han's gaze. Han's jaw nearly dropped, but he managed to restrain his shock, swallowing thickly in preparation to verbalize his reaction. But a look at Luke's face caused the former smuggler to pause. After a moment, Han's dark eyes flicked to Leia, the question she feared written in his confused glance before he looked back to Luke. The young Jedi still watched Han with the same steady, unassuming look. Somehow he seemed to know that Leia had told Han she and Luke were siblings, refraining from repeating something that Han already knew. Leia peered at Han without looking at him head on. She could practically hear the cogs working in his head. When his open face grew guarded she knew he'd put the pieces together. He turned back to Leia.

"And yours too," he added quietly. Leia couldn't respond. She couldn't even force herself to nod. She couldn't admit it, not even to Han. But he understood, nodding mutely as though making the gesture on her behalf. His eyes dropped from studying her down to Vader, his expression blank as he looked nearly unseeing at Vader's face. Leia still couldn't bring herself to look. She was afraid of what she'd see; scars? Disfigurement? A man? Was she afraid of seeing traces of Luke's features or even her own in the face that had hidden for so long behind that infamous mask? After a moment Han took a steadying breath before visibly steeling himself for the question she knew was bound to come next. He looked back over at her.

"How long have you known?" Leia's eyelids dipped closed as she fought the anguish rising in her chest, her fingers pressing together where they were clasped in front of her as though the pressure could stop the trembling she knew was likely to start. It had been a long time since she'd felt close to panicking at the memory of her imprisonment on the Death Star, but for the second time in a matter of minutes she felt closer to losing control than she had in months, even years. But she had to answer him. She could practically feel him beginning to draw away from her. She couldn't lose him now, not when she needed his strength to help her get through this revelation. It took two shaking breaths to fill her lungs enough that she felt she could safely speak.

"Last night, after Luke left, when you found me on the walkway." She knew he'd remember. She'd been too overwhelmed with grief at the realization that she might have just said goodbye to Luke for the last time to properly process what else he'd said. That was when Han had found her. She'd asked to be held, then, and he'd done so without hesitation. She wanted to be held now, but she knew it wasn't the right time.

Han was silent, his gaze shifting from Leia, to Vader, to Luke and Athara and finally back to Leia. Panic rose again in her chest, just as unbidden as before, threatening to choke her. She couldn't lose Han, not to Vader.

"I can't accept it. I won't, Han. That monster is not my father and never will be." She hated how her voice trembled. Han looked up at her in sympathy before standing, his hands coming up to chafe her shoulders. She looked up into his face, afraid what she'd see. A ghost of his crooked grin awaited her, and with a shaky sigh she leaned against him, unashamedly taking comfort of the solid feel of him against her.

"He wasn't a monster, Leia. Not entirely." Luke's voice was still so quiet, and Leia couldn't ignore the pain in it, or the conviction. Leia pulled back from Han's embrace, though his arm remained wrapped around her shoulders. She immediately wanted to contradict her Jedi brother, but the look on his face kept her silent. He was looking down at Athara again, his thumb brushing against her pale cheek. He looked so tired and hurt. But that was nothing compared to the worry written on his face, or the grief. It shook Leia to see him looking so wounded. When she finally managed to speak, her voice was far more sedate than before, betraying just how tired Leia felt too.

"After everything he's done? Luke, how can you still believe that?" He just continued to look down at Athara. From what Leia could see of the diagnostic scanner from where she stood, Athara's vitals were improving, the stim-shots Han had given her bolstering her system as it recovered from its obvious shock. But it didn't ease the look on her brother's face. What had happened on the Death Star, Leia couldn't help but wonder, to leave Athara and Luke in the physical condition they were in…not to mention the emotional state. After a long moment he sighed heavily, looking over to Vader himself before speaking.

"He killed her parents, Leia. Yet he's the only father she's ever known, and she loved him. She told me about him, how he cared for her as a child; the actions of the man from those stories were not those of a monster. It's because Vader and Anakin were trapped in the same body, each different from the other, each fighting for control. Vader was evil; but the remnants of Anakin that survived in him were still good and fought to regain control until the end. It was Anakin that loved her, Anakin who was our father. Not Vader.

"He sacrificed himself for us. The Emperor was killing us slowly—me and Athara—torturing us as he did. A few more moments…" he shuddered at the memory, his eyes squeezing shut as though to block it out. "The Alliance didn't kill the Emperor, and neither did I, nor Athara," his eyes opened, turning again to Vader, "he did." Leia felt herself going cold at the enormity of what he'd just said. She'd just assumed…Luke continued on, oblivious to the impact of what he'd revealed.

"He killed the Emperor to save me and to save her. And he died because of it. Anakin defeated Vader and the Emperor both to save us." Leia's breath shuddered as she exhaled, her very body feeling the effects of the turmoil Luke's calm truths were provoking in her. Could she see Vader as anything but a monster? Could she ever see him as Anakin? She looked to Athara, who lay still as death, Luke's hand smoothing her hair. Could she ever trust her? The bitter, angry part of her that clung irrationally to her pain revolted at the thought.

"He's done too much to me, Luke. He tortured me. Tortured the ones I love. I lost my planet, everything I cared about, my parents. He almost cost me Han, you. Vader and his Emperor have done everything they could to destroy everything good in our Galaxy. I can't do it. I can't." Luke bit back a sigh of regret, but he didn't look entirely surprised.

"You're not the only one to have lost everything," he said softly after a long moment, a trace of disappointment and sorrow in his voice that caused Leia to want to shrink back in shame, "and not the only one hurt at Vader's hands. You forget I lost my aunt and uncle, my home to Vader's orders. He took my mentor, my hand—," he paused taking a deep breath, "—my father's memory…I grew up believing him to be a pilot, a navigator on a spice freighter; nothing glamorous, no one important, but a good man. Then I learned he was a Jedi, a hero; someone I could look up to and be proud to be his son. Now…" He stopped there, again pausing to collect his thoughts, a flicker of his own inner turmoil flickering across his familiar features. It was a long moment before he started again, hesitation colouring his tone as it hadn't before; he wasn't sure he should share what he felt he needed to say. His eyes flicked to Athara again.

"She's lost more: her parents—more than once—the family that cared for her, the only man she'd ever known as a father. When she was an Imperial agent, she had no friends, no home, no freedom, barely a life to call her own; she only had Vader. Until she lost control on the Death Star when Alderaan was destroyed. After that she had nothing. Everything she'd ever known, gone. Until she met us, until she joined the Alliance. Now that's gone too." His steady gaze didn't leave Leia's face. Though he wouldn't say it, Leia knew; it was gone because of her. Leia was the one who'd exposed Athara as Obscura, who'd insisted that she was a spy and not a defector. Oh, he didn't blame her, and Leia wasn't even sure she'd truly done the wrong thing. He was just trying to make the point that Leia wasn't alone in her pain. It was a point Leia heard loud and clear. Her brother's hand landed on her shoulder. She hadn't even heard him move to stand beside her and Han.

"Yes, Leia, Vader was a monster, but Anakin was not. I can see that, now; Athara has seen it for most of her life, though she didn't understand what she knew for a long time," he hesitated for a moment, a faint, wry grin flickering across his features, "I was told once that there are a great many truths that depend entirely on our point of view…" his voice had grown distant, and as Leia looked up into his thoughtful face, she couldn't help but get the feeling that he was told that because of Vader, "…perhaps you're not ready to see the truth of who our father was yet, but someday, I think, you'll understand that who he was is not so simple as you think you know." A ghost of a smile tugged at her brother's lips as he backed away, returning to Athara's side. Leia sighed, unable to deny the wisdom in Luke's words. She looked up to Han. The smuggler was looking down at Vader again, deep in thought. After a moment his eyes flicked to Leia, his crooked smile appearing reassuringly. Running his fingers over her cheek, he kissed her lightly before he too returned to Athara's side.

After a moment of quiet discussion, the two men decided that they should be all right to move Athara from the shuttle. As Luke was in poor shape himself, it fell to Han to gather Vader's former apprentice in his arms and carry her down the boarding ramp, sparing Leia a concerned look as he did. Luke similarly looked to Leia, pausing at her side with a questioning look. She answered it with a tentative smile, trying to let him know without the words she wasn't able to find that she would be all right. After a moment he smiled back, drawing her into a hug. Something in Leia eased as she wrapped her arms around her brother's very real form, as though until that moment where she could physically feel that he was alright she wasn't quite able to let herself hope, afraid of that hope being crushed. As he held her, Leia found her gaze drawn to the large, still form laying next to them.

She looked down into the face of her father.

Hesitating, she pulled away from Luke, moving without thought until she was standing next to Vader—to Anakin, studying the face she had dreaded seeing.

There were scars, old and new, disfiguring his face. There were long-healed, extensive burns that marred his pasty skin, skin that had seen only the inside of a mask for who knew how long. The paper-thin skin surrounding his closed eyes was sunken and discoloured. There were raw looking gashes from what must have been interfaces with the helmet itself, and there were patches of skin that looked rubbed raw, perhaps perpetually so, from the mask. It looked awful, agonizing, even; she couldn't fathom living with the type of pain a man with those kinds of scars had to have endured every moment of every day.

But he looked at peace. There was nothing harsh or monstrous in his face, no matter that it had lived years behind the terrible mask that haunted her nightmares. An odd feeling—one completely at odds with the bitter well of memory that still throbbed in her chest—flickered to life in Leia as she looked down at the tranquil face of Anakin Skywalker.

Perhaps…maybe…one day, she could learn to see this man as something other than a monster.


	4. Broken

Vader couldn't help but stare into those fierce blue-grey eyes and remember them looking up at him out of the face of a child. When he'd retrieved Athara from Nubia years before, she'd looked up at him with those same eyes, then wide and guileless…and utterly without fear. He hadn't expected that.

With a roil of nausea deep in his gut he tried not to remember the first time they'd gone yellow, pale and garish in her familiar young face. One side of him had been pleased. But another, smaller, weaker side had wanted nothing more than to weep or retch.

He hated himself for encouraging the actions that produced that unnatural shade.

Now, she looked up at him with a fearless, remorseful steadiness.

"So you have turned against me," he said, responding to her own irate answer to his observation of her disobedience. It was a fight in itself to keep his tone collected and reasonable. He had told her to run, to hide; taking up with the Rebellion was the very last thing she should have done. She was supposed to be safe. His fear served only to fuel his rage; why couldn't she have listened! Stubborn child! He was faintly pleased when her challenging gaze dropped with shame at his accusation. He could sense that his words had hurt her. Good, the angry part of him exalted, let her feel the weight of her actions.

But then she clenched her jaw, an expression fixing on her face that he recognized easily. His temper was stoked at the defiance written in her eyes as she looked up at him again. He could feel her own anger swelling as she looked up at him. What had he done to earn such a look? He'd only ever tried to protect her. Ungrateful chil—no! The broken part of him that he never quite seemed able to keep buried in her presence surged forward, cutting off the thought that threatened to snap his anger into violence. Vader shoved it back, slamming the part of Anakin that remained back into the tiny, shadowed corner of his mind where he strove to keep it locked away; he berated himself for again allowing it too much freedom. His Master had warned him of the consequences of such failure, of such weakness. He was resolved to be firm. He would not give in. She watched him, her expression guarded but a flicker of resolve appearing in her eyes.

"No. But I cannot say that I have retained the same loyalty to Palpatine as I have to you." Athara's voice was low and almost soothing. She was so sure…but still so sorrowful. His heart clenched at the expression that surfaced in her eyes. She wanted him to understand. She was begging him to. She hadn't turned on him; she was trying to make the best of the situation she'd been thrust into. She was trying to apologize, to rationalize. His rage reared up, offended at the very notion that she thought he could be so easily placated, that a few paltry words could make up for her obvious and pointed betrayal.

Anakin heard determination mixed with regret.

All Vader could hear was accusation and treachery.

She had betrayed him, the Dark Side hissed, betrayed everything he'd done for her. It was all lies! She turned her back on him and threw in her lot with his sworn enemies, those who meant to destroy everything he'dworked to secure. He'd sacrificed too much to allow her to take that from him.

No, insisted Anakin, no! She's fighting to stay alive, she's fighting to destroy Palpatine; listen to her or you'll lose her!

"Why must you follow him?" Yes, why, the Light pressed, repeating her question back at him. But it only enraged Vader, her words cutting into him like a knife; she was already lost. He owed everything he still had left to his Master; his purpose, his destiny. Without those, he was nothing but a traitor, a murde—no! His rage swelled to drown out the pain provoked by what she was asking. How dare she question his motives! His purpose! She knows what binds him!

No she doesn't, the quiet broken part of him whispered, she doesn't know because you've hidden the truth from her. He shoved the thought away. That was not important. He was loyal to his Master, just as she was once loyal to him. Palpatine had shown him the way to accomplish what he'd been born to do. He had followed his destiny! The consequences were necessary evils and penance. Her eyes were pleading with him, hoping.

"I know you don't—" It was too much and his anger and anguish snapped free, blinding him to what he was doing. He was suddenly enraged beyond reason, cutting her off before she could utter another single, spiteful word. How dare she! Power surged down his arm, his hand the focus point; his means of visualizing what it was he wanted to Force to do. A grim satisfaction washed through him as his rage, still far from satiated, reveled in the way her eyes widened in surprise as his phantom grip closed around her throat.

"I have no choice but to follow, my very young apprentice. I must obey my Master." The words were out of his mouth of their own accord, ushered through the respirator with chilling sincerity. Panic burst to life in her eyes as her hands clutched at her throat, her mouth parting as instinctively her body fought for air. His lip curled into a grimace as his grip tightened, her desperation feeding his malice, stoking his frenzy for even the meager the satisfaction her death would bring him. It has to be done, the Dark Side reveled, it is a necessary lesson and a necessary consequence of her lack of loyalty; as though her death was a bygone conclusion.

Distantly he could feel her thoughts bombarding against his mental shields but the rage was too wild, too potent, too powerful. The bewilderment in her face only enraged him further. How could she not understand? She knew him! She knew him better than anyone.

Perhaps that was why it hurt so much…

Her thoughts and feelings thrashed against his own, their strength as insignificant in the face of his anger as a butterfly's wings. Yet they stung. It was as though he could feel her trust in him cracking and shattering like a pane of glass as his invisible grip tightened around her windpipe. He could see the life in her blue-grey eyes beginning to dim. Just a little longer, the Darkness urged, pressing him to tighten his grip further still.

_Anakin, you're killing her_. It was a voice he hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime, not since he was a child. It was so sad and disappointed. Grieving, not for her, but for him and what he had allowed himself to be driven to.  _Just like Padmé_. The truth in those few bleak words sliced through the anger, letting in his apprentice's final attempts to reach him, to remind him what she was to him, what he was to her.

He looked at Athara, really looked. Her eyes were starting to slide shut, her lips no longer struggling to plead for him to listen as the last of her energy was spent in trying to fight him back. She was beginning to waver, her legs trembling beneath her on the verge of collapse.

Then it was no longer a young woman standing before him, it was a little girl who had looked up at him, eyes wide and trusting, as he told her she need never fear the dark. His rage disintegrated in the face of his comprehension of what he was doing, leaving him forsaken and horrified.

His heart shattered anew.

She crumpled to a heap on the icy floor, air rushing back into her lungs with enough force to make her jerk as her body fought to restart the rhythm of breathing.

What had he almost done?

He couldn't move. Had he not had his respirator to force air into his lungs he was sure he'd be unable to breath as well, he was so consumed by horror and guilt. He just stood there, immobile, his traitorous hand falling to hang limp at his side. He could only watch her, images of her presence in his life floating before his suddenly blurred vision.

This girl was his child even though she was not his blood; he had sworn in words and actions to protect her, to care for her…to love her. His mind felt like a devastated wasteland of wretched and ragged emotion as he struggled to reconcile what he'd just tried to do.

She looked up at him, one hand still hovering at her throat as the other braced her upright, her body not quite recovered enough to stand. He couldn't meet her eyes, his gaze fixing instead on her trembling fingers. They brought the expression on her face only moments earlier immediately and painfully to mind. His eyes slammed shut, trying to block it out, but if anything the condemning images intensified.

"Why?" There were too many questions and answers tied up in that one gasped plea. He opened his eyes to look down at her again. He was too weak, too afraid to answer any of them. The skin below his eyes was stinging fiercely. It was a welcome burn, a weak approximation of the physical agony he should be suffering for trying to commit so horrific an act against the one, single person left in his life who truly cared for him. She was all he had left. No matter his devotion to his Master, he knew Palpatine cared very little for him as a person; he was not a fool. He was a tool to the Emperor, a means to an end and valued for that reason alone.

And his son? His son…he hadn't even known his son survived, so how could he mean anything to the boy; and he'd tried to kill him just as he had killed his Angel. His son didn't even know he had a father. How could he care for a father he didn't know existed.

But Athara…

He was a monster, and he couldn't deny it.

And then Qui-gon was back, brushing against his wounded consciousness, compassionate and reassuring. He couldn't handle the Jedi Master's sympathy. He pushed it away. He didn't deserve it. He deserved every harsh, searing lash his anguish and guilt and sorrow was meting out against his shattered conscience. He couldn't help the despair that swamped him. He didn't have the strength to fight it, not with Athara looking up at him like that, like she didn't even know him…

…like she feared him.

He couldn't bear to lose her, not when she meant so much to him.

But he feared he just had.

He was a monster.

The part of him that was still, impossibly, Anakin felt like it was withering up with sorrow and torment, unable to bear what he had done. How long before he was irreparably broken by the weight of his mistakes and regrets.

You already are, the part of him that was Anakin admitted despondently.

A blast nearly too low to hear vibrated through the ground beneath Vader's feet. The assault on the base wasn't waiting for him to regain control of himself. Over their heads the tunnel around them began to fissure and weaken under a renewed barrage of fire from the AT-ATs. Even as the ceiling began to crumble and collapse, he couldn't keep from watching her, heedless of the danger to himself, terror suddenly surging through him as she desperately struggled to get out of the way as a veritable avalanche rained down. Instinctively, he threw up his arms, staggering back as chunks of ice and snow bombarded him, panic warring with self-preservation as he struggled to see through the collapsing wreckage.

And then it was over, and Vader found himself staring at a wall of ice and snow. Desperately, he reached out. Relief crashed through him as he sensed his apprentice scrambling to her feet in the still intact hallway beyond the blockage. Part of him wanted to blast through the obstruction, heedless of the danger, to see for himself that his apprentice was safe, perhaps even proving to her that, despite his actions in the heat of his rage, she was still the most precious thing in his life.

But he knew that it was too late to prove any such thing, despite the truth of it, through mere action. Not with the memory of those wide, blue-grey eyes looking up at him in terror.

No. He had destroyed any chance of that. There was little hope of reconciliation thanks to what he had done. She could never forgive him.

He finally realized it was tears running over the raw skin of his cheeks that was causing the burning sensation.

He didn't deserve her forgiveness. So why should he hope for it?

His despair rose up to claim him again.

Vader turned, every step jarring and painful as he walked away from her.

Yet, even knowing there was no point in hoping, he couldn't bring himself to stop longing for it anyway.

He fought to hold onto the memory of her looking up at him with nothing but trust in her eyes. But it faded all too quickly.

All he could see anymore was her fear as he betrayed her.

It was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

He hated himself anew.


	5. From Fara to Varykino

"I'm glad you were able to make it." Athara and Luke turned at the sound of Commander Adyé's—no, just Orran, he'd insisted—Orran's voice. He looked tired and worn, but not quite so sad as before the ceremony. The closure had been good for him. "My Father would have been pleased to have his granddaughter here." Athara managed a wan smile, her eyes flicking almost of their own accord to the small crowd gathered a short way off.

They kept looking over…they kept looking at her.

Brahm Adyé's funeral had been well attended, though not so extensively so as the memorial the day previous. The number of people there had staggered Athara. He'd had a long life and had been a fixture of the Adyé Attire and Vestments dressmaking house in Fara, so he was a well-known and beloved public figure.

A few of the people who had been invited to the actual funeral today, mostly family and close friends, were eyeing Luke and Athara with thinly veiled but wary curiosity, especially Athara. No matter that it had been years since she'd purposefully touched the Dark Side, there was still something about her that made people instinctively wary in a way that always reminded her of her days as Obscura.

Perhaps it was that she was always wary and watchful herself, the instinct making others nervous.

Or maybe it was because they unconsciously sensed the lingering traces of the Dark Side that she knew she'd never be able to shed entirely. It was bothering her a lot, recently, knowing that the Dark Side would always cling to her no matter how hard she strove to be rid of it.

"I wasn't sure at first, but I'm glad I did," she replied quietly, forcing her eyes back to her uncle, "but it still feels odd; I barely knew him." Orran glanced back toward the gathering, a knowing look coming over his face.

"He wouldn't have cared save that you were here. You are Neva's daughter. That's all that mattered to him. He was just happy to have the missing piece of his family, a piece of her, returned after believing you lost for so many years." She looked at him carefully, not bothering to hide the questioning look on her face.

"It doesn't bother you that I never told him?" Orran's expression was unreadable, though there was a trace of fondness written there.

"Told him what?" She could sense that he knew exactly what she meant, but was trying to make a point. She got it; she just wasn't convinced.

"About who—what—I was," she said softly, not expecting the words to sound so sad until she heard them coming out of her mouth. Luke's hand tightened in hers. She glanced over to her Farmboy, reassured by his steady calm. She wasn't sure how he did it, or if he even meant to do it, but she was always grateful for the aura of calm and peace that he seemed to exude when she needed it most.

Orran looked at her with consideration, his eyes narrowed faintly from the sun's brightness.

"Perhaps a little," he said simply, "but we knew he had little time left. It was better for him to be happy that you were alive than to spend that time grieving for what you had to live through. And he would have; that was the kind of man he was. He already grieved for the time you lost with your family, with your mother, especially." Athara sighed, still unconvinced. Orran's brow furrowed as he studied her.

"He wouldn't have condemned you for it, Athara," he said soberly, "for the shadows of your past." Athara fought back the tears suddenly prickling at the corners of her eyes. Yes; that was what she feared. That's why she'd been so inexplicably grateful when Orran had made no mention to her grandfather of her past as Vader's Shadow. She was not ashamed of her past; she refused to be. She regretted, yes, but she was not ashamed of who she had become because of it. But now she had a real family, and she was wary of how they would react were they to know the whole truth. Orran was the only one who knew all of it. His younger brother Tani knew some of it, especially given how close Tani and Mona seemed to be growing. The rest, not that there were many Adyés immediately related to Athara, knew less still. She knew she would never be close with them—the gulf of time and her past saw to that regardless, as did her not knowing how to let people truly get close to her—but even so, she didn't want them to hate her for what she'd done. Luke's hand squeezed hers again.

Suddenly very self-conscious of how damp her eyes must look—she was so emotional today!—Athara looked down to the marker she and Luke had been standing in front of when Orran had walked up.

It was her mother's. It had been hers too.

She had learned that Nabooians were traditionally cremated upon their deaths, and their ashes were often scattered either in places of particular sentimental importance or in beautiful memorial gardens where families would place stone markers with the names of their loved ones surrounded by running water and growing things. It was a beautiful concept. The Adyés had a particular section of the memorial gardens in Fara where markers from their family had been placed for generations.

Orran had taken Athara to the Adyé gardens the first time she had visited him on Naboo; the same visit where she'd met her grandfather. It had been a shock to see her own name etched into the warm-hued stone next to her mother's. Of course, everyone had believed her dead in the same attack that had taken her mother, so it was only natural that Neva's family would choose to memorialize Neva and Athara alongside one another. It had haunted Athara for weeks for reasons she couldn't quite fathom even now. Luke believed it was because it was because Athara was subconsciously grieving the life she'd never been allowed to have, one where she'd grown up with her parents by her side and never had to embrace the Dark Side to survive. She didn't know if that was true, but it was far more logical than any reason she'd been able to come up with. All she'd known was that seeing her name in that stone had really gotten to her.

But it had been a changed since last time.

"Thank you, by the way," she suddenly blurted out, glancing back up at her uncle, "for this." She gestured back to the newly altered stone. Orran bowed his head in reply, a gentle smile on his face. It held a trace resemblance to the smile Neva had in the only holo Athara had of her mother.

"It seemed appropriate," he said softly, "even though she refused to refer to him as anything but 'my husband' or Ben to us when she was here before—when we saw her last, it was evident to all of us that she loved him a great deal. My sister loved Naboo, and that she was willing to leave here forever so she could be with him showed to me even then, as a teenager, how much she must have loved him. It seemed—it seemed right to add his last name to hers and, since you said he had no memorial or grave anywhere, it seemed equally right to add his name beside Neva's instead of yours when we commissioned the stone to be corrected. Master Kenobi was a great hero, particularly to us here on Naboo. We are proud to include his name here, among our family's." The names of her parents, Obi-wan Kenobi and Neva Amalia Adyé-Kenobi, blurred before Athara's eyes as she looked down to the stone marker. She swiped away the tear that had escaped, clearing her throat as she looked back to her uncle. He smiled again, patting her shoulder gently before making his way back toward the gathering, which appeared to be breaking up. With a final look, Athara stepped back from the stone, falling into step beside Orran with Luke at her side, his fingers still entwined with hers.

"Will you be staying on Naboo for a little while yet?" Orran asked conversationally. Athara exchanged a glance with Luke, who nodded in response to Orran's question.

"We're going up to the Lake Country for a few days," he said, hesitating for a moment before continuing, "my Mother's up there and we thought we'd visit with her for a bit before we head back off-world." It still felt strange for him to refer to Padmé as his mother, but Athara could sense how happy it made him that he could do so. Athara smiled at him, feeling her more cheerful equilibrium returning at thought of the Lake Country.

"I think I say it every time we visit, but I cannot thank you enough for insisting we go to the Lake Country. It's—" She didn't have the words; beautiful didn't quite seem accurate. It was more than that. It was like here in Fara. Something about it just felt like home. Orran grinned at Athara, an almost impish glint in his eyes.

"You certainly have Nabooian blood, Athara," he laughed, "and you are very welcome. So, Luke Skywalker has Nabooian ties himself. I never would have known." Luke chuckled.

"To be honest, I didn't know myself, not until very recently." Orran nodded in understanding, a trace of curiosity in his eyes. Athara was grateful when he decided not to pry; privacy was something she had learned Nabooians respected greatly. Instead, Orran steered the conversation back to their plans.

"Where in the Lake Country are you headed?" He looked to both of them, and again it was Luke who answered, though his brow creased for a moment as he recalled the name.

"A place called Varykino, I think? I could be mistaken." Orran's step faltered and the older man paused to stare at Luke, and odd expression on his face. As Luke and Athara paused themselves, confused by the sudden change in him, a knowing look bloomed across his features.

"Varykino. It's a villa that shares the name of the island it sits on: beautiful place. One of the most beautiful in the area," the older man paused, a silent debate evidently occurring behind his eyes, "and the retreat of the Naberrie family for generations." The knowing look turned directly to Luke as his voice dropped lower. "I'd heard rumours that a greatly revered and missed lady of that family had reappeared and then retired to Varykino, but I wasn't sure whether to believe it." Luke's expression grew guarded and Athara could feel her own face growing pale, her stomach flopping uncomfortably.

Though she had shared her secret with her family and oldest and closest friends—those she knew she could trust with her secret—Padmé had ultimately decided to keep the reality of her survival quiet, hence her decision to retire to her family's retreat, as it was far more private and remote than a residence in Theed. The former queen and senator far preferred to devote her time to her children and now her young grandson. She adored Ben, and whenever Han and Leia found themselves overwhelmed with their work to reorganize the Alliance and rebuild the Republic, Padmé eagerly volunteered to take care of the toddler for how ever many days or weeks his parents were required to be away from him, something Leia had finally come around to.

Athara fixed her uncle with a pointed look, her features easily falling back into the direct but unreadable expression of her Imperial days.

"And rumours they will stay," she said softly, her suddenly hard gaze unwavering on Orran. It was a look that, in the past, brooked no argument or contradiction, only immediate agreement and compliance. But Orran only laughed, startling Athara. That had certainly never happened before.

"You needn't give me your Obscura look, dear niece! Padmé Amidala is a national treasure," he said cheerfully, his voice still carefully quiet, "she is our eternally beloved Queen and a Hero of our people; but as joyously received as news of her survival would be, I respect her far too much to go against her obvious wishes. I would sooner disavow the Alliance and the Republic than betray our beloved Queen." Athara still eyed him warily, the sudden protective instinct not quite abating even though she sensed the truth of his words. Luke breathed a noticeable sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Orran," he said quietly. Orran offered a faint bow in recognition, though his eyes shone with trace curiosity. He wasn't quite able to keep it in this time, and after a few more paces, turned back to the Jedi couple, his voice still pitched low for privacy.

"So the secret father of her child was Master Skywalker. It was an incredibly tragic blow when her state funeral also revealed her pregnancy at the time of her supposed death, but there was no trace of who the father might have been. It would have gone against our culture's traditions to investigate into his identity, so the matter was allowed to rest with her. But I will admit, I was always a little curious…as were a great many others here on Naboo." He then grinned at Luke and Athara, "it would seem that our Queens have a penchant for falling in love with Jedi, or at the very least, Jedi Heroes of Naboo," he teased gently, his twinkling gaze landing for a moment on Athara. She felt her face warming. Beside her, Luke's cheeks were also flushing, but he turned a questioning glance to Orran and Athara. Athara realized with a start that she hadn't told him that portion of her mother's history.

"My mother was apparently an elected Queen, though she never took office," she explained quietly. Luke nodded slowly, looking as though he were on the verge of asking something else when Orran picked up Athara's explanation.

"And Neva would have made a great Queen, too. But it was during the Clone Wars, and tensions were high, even on Naboo, and there was a faction who took issue with Neva's decision to keep allowing refugees shelter on Naboo, especially as ports in the system were being requisitioned for their arrivals. The very day she was elected, there was an assassination attempt against her, one she very nearly didn't survive. Master Kenobi only barely saved her life." Luke's eyes widened briefly, realizing the same moment Athara did what that meant. They'd known about the assassination attempt, but they hadn't known it nearly succeeded.

"Her injury," his vibrant eyes flicked to Athara, who had gone pale again.

"The one that forced her to come back to Naboo…to have me," she finished his thought softly. She'd never connected the two events before. Orran looked sadly at the both of them, nodding after a moment.

"She abstained from taking office because of that injury. From there she went to Coruscant as part of Senator Amidala's household," his eyes had started twinkling again, "it always seemed odd to me that she would go to the Capitol when she was finally free to return to Fara as she'd wanted. But now that I know who her mysterious Ben was, I can understand her reasoning a little better." Athara merely shook her head at his teasing, grateful that he'd managed to lighten the mood. It was hard to speak of her mother, especially knowing her fate. Today especially.

They had reached the main gathering and, after a few more minutes of mingling, Athara and Luke decided it was time to go. No matter that she knew it was her mother's family—and thus also her family—Athara didn't truly know any of them, save Orran and Tani, and watching them all interact with such familiar ease, sharing memories of her Grandfather and people she'd never know, made her feel sorely out of place. Easily sensing her discomfort, Luke understood immediately and not long after they had said their goodbyes and were on their way to the Lake Country.

The journey itself was uneventful but pleasant, something Athara was immensely grateful for. She'd been longing for some time alone with Luke, having felt the press of people the last few days oppressive. She was not a sociable person. She hadn't been raised to be. She was solitary and disciplined into being aloof in public. They were hard habits to break. More than once she'd caught herself slipping behind the affected emotionless mask she'd used to wear as Obscura. But then, it didn't help either that she had a lot on her mind. She wasn't ready to talk about it, though; she was afraid of the emotions talking about it was likely to dredge up in her. So instead she was content to watch the landscape pass and change as they left Fara behind for the Lake Country.

Varykino was a vision; the villa golden and green, nestled perfectly on the banks of the island it shared its name with as though it was as much a part of the landscape as the trees or the stone. Athara very nearly couldn't believe that it was real.

"Orran was right. It is beautiful here; Naboo really is nothing like Tatooine," Luke said as they climbed the stairs from the water steps. Athara couldn't help but grin at the disparaging tone he used to describe his Homeplanet. She walked forward to the balcony ahead of them, peering out over the railing to gaze at the water. The sun was bright and pleasant, and Athara adored it. She'd spent so much of her life in space that the freshness of the air and the lively breeze on her skin still felt like a rare treat. She glanced back at her Farmboy as he came to stand beside her.

"Tatooine has its own harsh beauty, you know; you're just biased—but yes, it is beautiful here." Luke's arm wound around her waist as she spoke, pulling her close. Her amused grin shifting to one of contentment, she gladly leaned into him, looking out over the glittering waves. They didn't speak for a long time, simply basking in the gentle warmth of the sun and listening to the swishing of the water and the cheerful singing of the birds hidden among the luscious greenery around them.

"We should get married here," Luke murmured, drawing Athara back from the peaceful lull she'd relaxed into. She looked up at him, into the clear blue eyes that studied her reaction. There was no doubt in him, no anxiety and barely a trace of nervousness that she could sense. Her lips parted with surprise, her chest growing tight.

"You want to get married? To me?" She was surprised enough that there was barely any volume to her voice. He nodded, his mouth curling in a secret sort of smile. Her chest tightened again as thoughts began racing through her head a mile a minute. He wanted to marry her.  _Her_! Her Farmboy, her Rebel Pilot, her best friend, wanted to marry her, a failed Sith apprentice, a disgraced Imperial agent. It defied reason. Once she never would have dreamed of marrying; until she'd met Luke, she hadn't even considered the possibility of falling in love. It hadn't seemed possible, or even logical. Who'd  _want_  to marry her? But Force did she love him, and it staggered her to sense how much he loved her back. It staggered her how much she wanted it. But a flicker of fear and even a trace of mistrust went through her, a tiny, obstinate thread of doubt that she wanted desperately to ignore trying to weave into her thoughts. She tried to push it away, afraid it would unlock everything else she'd been struggling to keep contained. He must have felt it, because his gentle smile grew reassuring, his sincerity shining in his eyes. He leaned in, placing a firm kiss against her lips as his hand came up to cradle her jaw.

"Yes, Athara. I want to marry you if you want to marry me," he said, the beautiful, open smile that hid nothing lighting up his features as his thumb brushed over cheek. He was wiping away a tear, she realized belatedly as another track of moisture trailed down her face. Why in the Galaxy was she crying? But that smile was all she needed, its warmth banishing the coolness her uncertainty and wariness had been trying to sow in her chest. There was no reason to be uncertain about this. Her own fingers rose to brush across his features before she was pulling him against to her, her lips giving him her answer with words and kisses.

"Yes," she whispered against his grinning mouth, "yes, I do." It was only then that she felt his relief flood through him, drawing a faint gasping laugh from her Farmboy.

"Oh, I think we're interrupting, Ben," came a soft voice from the terrace doors. Padmé stood looking out at them, little Ben in her arms watching his uncle and Athara with her, "though, it is the perfect place for such things, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Padmé said, her voice laughing and nostalgic.

Both their faces near burning at being caught out in such an intimate moment, the two aspiring Jedi reluctantly pulled apart, Luke walking forward to give his mother an embrace and his nephew a quick tickle, earning a peal of laughter from the toddler before he took the boy into his own arms, freeing Padmé to welcome Athara with a quick hug of her own.

It wasn't long before they were relaxing and chatting happily inside the villa, with Athara and Luke on one sun-bathed couch and Padmé on another. Ben insisted on toddling about on unsteady legs between his grandmother, his uncle and his soon-to-be aunt, chatting eagerly with his rapidly growing repertoire of words. Padmé had been thrilled at the news that Luke and Athara had agreed to marry, especially once it came out that Padmé and Anakin had been married in Varykino themselves. If that hadn't made Athara emotional again…

Athara couldn't help the wistful grin that came to her face as she watched Padmé smiling down at the toy Ben was currently pressing into her patient hands, only to demand it back. Luke was smiling too, but there was a distant look in his eye that told Athara his thoughts were elsewhere. They had just finished recounting Brahm Adyé's funeral and the conversation with Orran that had followed. Padmé had looked far more unconcerned that Orran had discerned her survival than Athara might have expected, but she wasn't in the mood to read into it just now. She was far too content leaning against her Farmboy, watching Ben play as they talked. Now the little boy was insisting that he wanted up onto his grandmother's lap. But she was curious about Luke's far-away expression. She pressed a little more firmly against him for an instant, giving him a questioning look when he glanced over at her.

"What's wrong," she asked quietly. He blinked, momentarily confused. She cocked an eyebrow at him, "you look like you're in a different system." Comprehension washed over his face along with a faint flush at being caught out. She hid the smile for what felt like the millionth time at how easily he still flushed around her.

"Nothing's wrong. I just can't stop thinking about something Orran said, about my Father." Athara sat a little straighter, her attention sharpening. Across from them, Padmé stilled, her warm eyes shifting to her son as she pulled her squirming grandson into her arms. Luke looked to his mother, directing what he said next to her. "He called him a Hero of Naboo. It seemed oddly specific to me." After a moment where her gaze turned distant and thoughtful, Padmé nodded slowly, her face showing she understood precisely what Orran meant. She glanced down at Ben, who was now twining strands of Padmé's dark hair through his little fingers. With eternal patience, she deftly disentangled him from the gently silvering curl before speaking.

"It was during the Invasion of Naboo." Athara absently nodded as Padmé spoke; she'd heard of it, or at least, she'd heard the Imperial version. Luke frowned, though, his face faintly blank. Padmé didn't notice at first, her gaze distant as she looked out over the lake through the sitting room's expanse of windows. "It's common knowledge across the Galaxy that Obi-wan played a key role in our liberation; he's still beloved here because of it, despite the Empire's attempts to vilify the Jedi. But something that is not well known beyond Naboo is that Ani—your father—was the pilot who destroyed the command ship that controlled the droid army we were facing. He was only a child at the time." She looked over to Luke, finally noticing the fascinated but faintly lost expression. She gave him a reassuring smile, though it was tinged with sadness. Luke's voice was apologetic.

"I've never really heard much about it," he admitted quietly, "we were taught little of galactic politics and history in Anchorhead. We were too far removed from the rest of the Galaxy on the Outer Rim for it to be of much interest or importance. And there wasn't much time once I joined the Rebellion to really get caught up. The name sounds familiar, I think, and I know it was important, but I know nothing else." Athara was the one this time to squeeze his hand in reassurance.

"I've only ever heard the official Imperial censor-approved version. I had no idea my Master was involved, but then, he never spoke of the past before I was in his life, save in the vaguest of terms," Athara supplied, relieved that her confession seemed to lessen Luke's embarrassment a little. She knew he was self-conscious of the deficiencies his Outer Rim education had left him with, especially when it came to the events that shaped the Galaxy and the fight he'd given his life to. Athara looked from Luke to Padmé, an idea springing to mind that just felt right. "You were there; you played a crucial role yourself. What really happened? Will you tell us?"

Padmé looked startled at first, then hesitant. Then an odd sort of pleased nostalgic expression came over her features as she looked back to her son.

"Very well. It ultimately turned out to be an unexpectedly important turning point for the Galaxy, though no one could have fathomed it at the time; Palpatine had us all dancing like puppets on a string and orchestrating the Invasion of Naboo was his first move toward claiming power. Naboo is a small planet, as you know, and we rely heavily on trade. The Trade Federation had formed a blockade of our planet to protest a move in the Senate to tax…" It was easy to tell why Padmé had such a gift as a Queen and as a Senator. She knew how to speak well, her voice easy but captivating as she told the story, growing more intent when the tale did and sedate when appropriate. The only time she faltered was when she came to the part in the story where she met Anakin.

He'd been born a slave; Anakin Skywalker had been a slave on Tatooine. Athara had been so shocked that for a moment she couldn't breathe and Luke had physically jerked as Padmé stumbled over the revelation. The expression in the older woman's eyes had been bleak and sad, but she regained her composure after a moment and continued on, her demeanor brightening as she spoke of Anakin's selflessness as a child even to people he barely knew.

Neither had Athara realized how much of a role in Anakin's life her own ghostly mentor had played. Qui-gon had rarely spoken of Anakin, either of when he'd been a boy, a Jedi or a Sith. If he'd spoken of the past at all, it was usually about his apprentice, her father, Obi-wan. Athara had certainly never fathomed that Qui-gon's death had come during the Battle of Naboo. Such was the enthralling nature of Padmé's telling that Athara was hard pressed not to let her tears fall when the older woman related her own grief at learning the older Jedi had been killed in the fight to free her planet.

Evening was beginning to descend as Padmé wrapped up her tale, and little Ben was struggling to keep his eyes open. He had wiggled off Padmé's lap after a time of listening to the story, intent on playing again before finding his way first into his uncle's lap and ultimately ending up in Athara's arms. As Padmé fell silent after relating the celebrations following Naboo's liberation—including how Neva and Obi-wan had met, something that had delighted Athara—Ben was firmly snuggled into Athara's lap and refused to be surrendered to his grandmother. Biting back a laugh at the little boy's stubborn streak, Athara rose from Luke's side to help Padmé get Ben settled into bed for the night. It didn't turn out to be too hard, as before Athara and Padmé had even reached the nursery Padmé had insisted on creating for her grandchild, Ben had drifted off, barely stirring as Athara handed him off to his grandmother. After carefully manipulating the sleeping toddler into his night things, Padmé settled Ben into his cot before turning to Athara. The former Sith apprentice couldn't seem to stop watching the little boy, lost in thought.

"You should tell him," Padmé said softly, jerking Athara from her study of Ben's gentle breathing, or the way his dark curls almost glowed crimson in the warm light of evening shining into the room. She didn't say anything; she couldn't. She didn't know what to say. But Padmé looked to her with a knowing look on her face. Athara bit at her bottom lip. But the older woman said nothing else, simply taking and squeezing Athara's fingers as she passed.

Athara found Luke out on the terrace a short while later, looking out over the sunset-hued lake. It was calm, the water so still it looked like a sheet of ember-coloured glass. As she came up behind him she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his shoulder. His hand came to rest on hers where it lay flat against his sternum, his fingers lacing with hers.

"It seems so strange to think of my father as a boy," he said after a few moments, "stranger than trying to picture him as a young man here, in this place." Athara nodded against his back, her eyes threatening to slide shut. It had been a long few days and she was tired. The calm of the Villa and Luke's presence was soothing. After a moment he turned, pulling her forward so she stood next to him. She protested a little at the move, having been surprisingly comfortable, but he only grinned. She made a playfully annoyed face at him, earning a chuckle, before he placed a kiss against her temple, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. With a sigh she burrowed against his side, her arm winding around his waist.

"I've never had stories about him, especially not from when he was young. Only vague descriptions that he was a good man or a great pilot…a great Jedi before—you have stories from your childhood. Even when he was trapped by the Dark Side, he still cared for you and you have those memories to remind you of that. I know he redeemed himself, that he sacrificed himself for us, but beyond that, I have…" She glanced up at him, knowing why he trailed off. He had next to nothing but horrors to remember; he had stories of Vader, not his father. Her smile faded a little at the distant look on his face.

"You also have the stories I found among the information I had on my father," she added softly, trying to help. He nodded absently, but she could tell he didn't entirely agree.

"True, but it isn't the same as hearing about him from someone who knew him. The news holos are great, but they're…I don't know, impersonal, somehow." She understood what he meant, and he was right. She'd felt the same, even before she'd known Obi-wan was her father, until Qui-gon had finally spoken of him, his words making Obi-wan real to her. She leaned her head back against his shoulder for a moment, peering up into his face. He was looking out over the water again, the surface now gleaming opal in the dimming evening light. She turned her eyes back to the lake. It really was beautiful.

"But now you have stories. You'll have the stories your mother can tell you," she said, but then she hesitated, holding onto the words that tried to escape next for a moment before deciding to let them free, "you'll have stories to tell your own child." She felt him stiffen against her and fought not to tense herself. Instinctively she tried pulling away, though, whether out of a long ingrained instinct of self-preservation or simply so she could turn to face him, even she wasn't sure.

"Don't do that, Athara." Her eyes flashed up to his face at his tone. Her breath caught at the incredulous and startlingly vulnerable expression looking back at her.

"What?" she hadn't meant to blurt it, but his words were so at odds with his expression that her already amped up nerves were getting the better of her. He brushed his fingers across her features.

"Close off like that; hide what you're feeling." He was right, she realized with belatedly. Her sudden nerves had caused her mental shields to snap up out of instinct and her emotionless mask to slip into place. The corner of his lip quirked as her shields slowly came down and her mask dissolved.

"Better," he murmured before breathing deeply, as though steeling his nerve, "now say it again." Athara's heart was thundering at what she sensed from him; anxious elation was trying to build within her Farmboy, but he was trying so hard to restrain it, uncertain if he had understood her right. She smiled nervously, a hand of her own coming up to trace along his jaw.

"You now have stories of your father that you can tell your own child." Her voice wavered. Now was not the time to give into her nerves or her fears, no matter how all encompassing they were. Not with Luke looking at her like this.

"You're—you're sure." After a moment she nodded. She hadn't used any sorts of tests or medical checks, but she knew.

"I've wondered for a few days now. And then, during my meditations this morning, I could feel it; a new life; a child of our own." His vibrant eyes were wide as he stared down at her, still looking almost dazed as her admission sank in. And then his arms were tightening around her, crushing her against him. She couldn't help but laugh, trying to ignore how anxious she still sounded.

"I can't breath, Farmboy!" she gasped, still giggling as his arms loosened, his face abashed as he did. But then his expression sobered as he studied her face.

"What is it," he asked gently. Athara swallowed thickly, forcing back the sudden tears brought on by the anxiety and fear warring in the back of her mind. She opened her mouth, to tell him what she'd been fighting not to feel since she first began to wonder, but nothing came out. He was soon frowning worriedly as he sensed the tumultuous feelings roiling through her. Her control had reached its end and the fearful emotions that had been building since she first realized her pregnancy were starting to shake free of her tight control. Athara fought to tamp them down, to shed them, but she was failing miserably. "Athara, what has you so afraid?"

As though validated by his recognition, her fear spiked, causing a flash of anger at herself burst through her. No sooner had it happened than she blanched, terror and misery replacing her anger.

Suddenly Luke seemed to understand. She could see it in his face as she fought to shed her anger; it was hard, harder than it had been in a long time, her lingering traces of the Dark Side fed by this unfamiliar brand of fear. She tried to pull away from him, ashamed at her sudden loss of control and unable to meet his gaze.

But then his arms were around her again and that indefinable presence that was Luke brushed against her consciousness. Shaking inside and out, Athara let him in without deliberate thought, letting him help her regain her calm. It was several long moments before she was able to speak.

"It's still there; the Dark Side. It's still within me and it'll never go away. What if—what if it—" She couldn't say it. She couldn't voice her deepest fear, that the Dark Side in her would somehow hurt or taint their innocent child…that she was a danger to their child. He knew anyway. With her mental shields gone and his mind brushing against hers, he could sense it as clearly as if she had spoken it. Her past hung heavily over her, outweighing the joy she wanted desperately to feel.

"It won't," he murmured, reassuring and confident, "you won't let it." She hiccupped as a sob was suddenly trying to break free, the pressure in her chest from her crushing fears cracking in the face of her Farmboy's soothing comfort. Slowly but surely she was finally able to calm herself, shedding her fears and insecurities one by one until there was nothing left of them.

Finally free of the oppressive weight, her own elation was finally allowed room to grow, blooming as a spark of excitement lit in her chest where her fear had been. It was still there, a tiny shadow next to her joy, but it was manageable now. With a sigh, Athara shifted, wrapping his arms around her so that she stood cradled back against him, allowing her to look out over the lake again. He let her, his cheek coming to rest against her hair. It was almost full night now, the stars beginning to appear as the first of Naboo's moons began to rise, painting the lake with its wavering reflection.

"I want to call her Ana," Athara said quietly after a long while, breaking the silence. Luke's eyes were full of too many emotions to name as she glanced up at him. Finally, a mischievous grin tugged at his lips.

"Her?" Athara laughed at his playfully skeptical tone.

"I'd say it's a mother's intuition," she said, her voice trembling a little, not only from moments before, but also at the strangeness of saying it—it still hadn't fully sunk in that she was going to be a  _mother_  of all things—but it quickly took on a teasing tone, "but I'm pretty sure it's the Force." Luke chuckled, his hand slipping under her arm to rest, warm and comforting, over her belly. She could feel the Force responding to his call, the calm that he embodied when he opened himself up to it enveloping her as he reached out. Her own eyes sliding shut, she opened herself up to the Force as well, allowing her feelings to mingle with his, reaching toward the tiny life she now knew was growing within her.

"I can sense her," he murmured, his voice suffused with wonder, "a little girl."

"Our little girl," Athara corrected softly, her hand coming to rest over his.

They stood like that for a long while.


	6. On Meetings with Bounty Hunters

Athara was trying hard not to show how nervous she was, and so far she seemed to be succeeding. She had only received one pointed look from her Master as they were about to step off the shuttle. She had immediately checked that her mental shields were in place and that her Force-signature was sufficiently guarded. For almost as long as she could remember her Master had stressed the importance of keeping her mind protected and the breadth of her abilities a closely guarded secret; it was something her life depended on, he insisted. Both had been perfectly adequate, she found, so she then renewed her concentration on not showing how nervous she was; that was probably what the look had been about.

For she was nervous. Extremely so. She had to fight not to fiddle with the hems of her sleeves or tug at the cowl of her cloak, anxious to ensure it was still covering her face as Vader had instructed. Her Master rarely took her anywhere beyond his Fortress on Mustafar or his personal Star Destroyer. And he never took her along on missions…until now, at least. She'd been too young before and not ready, he'd always told her when she asked. But apparently eleven was old enough to accompany Vader beyond his personal Star Destroyer, where she had been actively learning what it meant to be an Imperial agent and commander by his side for nearly a year now. Before that, she had been confined to the private collection of rooms Vader had set aside for his and her personal use as well as for her training. They had nearly a whole level to themselves where Athara was tasked with learning as much as she could about the Force and stretching and honing her own abilities under her Master's hard but expert tutelage.

But now, for the first time, she was accompanying him beyond the _Devastator_. She was anxious not to disappoint him. Though he hadn't explicitly said so, that she was by his side suggested that he believed she was ready. She only hoped that she was up to the task.

It had taken every ounce of self-control she had not to stare curiously around the hangar bay as they stepped off the shuttle. It certainly wasn't the first time she been in the primary landing bay of a Star Destroyer; she'd spent a great deal of her life on the _Devastator_ and Vader's previous flagship before that, but that didn't stop her from wanting to marvel at the scale, order and, perhaps most interestingly, the differences within the massive space. She must have done alright in controlling her thoughts, because Vader hadn't paid her the least attention, focusing instead on the officer providing him with a status report. She imagined that she was supposed to be paying attention to the briefing as well. After all, Vader had told her that one day she would be expected to be able to command a Star Destroyer on her own.

But she was distracted by a ship she'd never seen before where it was sitting off to the side of the hangar. It was oddly shaped and looked like it was sitting on its back, resting on its engines. The faded green and red ship fascinated her, so much so that she nearly faltered in her brisk pace to keep up with her Master's long strides.

She knew better than to run up and ask him, though, no matter how tempted she was. Vader stressed discipline when in the presence of others, especially subordinates. One could not possibly expect discipline unless you demonstrated it yourself.

So instead she waited, hoping that they would perhaps be left alone soon so that she would have a chance to ask about the odd ship.

The officer entered the turbolift with them and accompanied her and Vader to the bridge, where Vader made his rounds, checking in with the Admiral and periodically quizzing Athara, turning the routine inspection into an exercise. It proved to be great fun, as he allowed Athara to remind the commanders of their own incompetence when, in answering Vader's questions, she proved herself more adept than some of them were on the particulars of how to run a Star Destroyer. Finally Vader decided he had sufficiently humbled and even humiliated the commanders and intimidated the command personnel enough—many of the lieutenants and captains were nearly trembling they were so uneasy—that he simply turned and made for the turbolift. Athara had to try very hard not to giggle at that. The stunned looks on the Admiral and Rear Admiral's faces when Vader simply turned and left were rather funny. Similarly turning on her heel, Athara followed her Master, forcing her smile away and clamping down on her mental shields. She could sense that her Master was annoyed by the Admiral's ineptitude…although, nothing had been bad enough that he needed to make any examples today, Athara couldn't help but consider, so it couldn't have been all that bad either.

Her chance to ask about the odd ship finally came when they reached the turbolift, when the officer who had met them in the hangar and proceeded to shadow them around the bridge, saluted and left Vader and Athara to continue on without him. Once the doors slid shut and the lift started moving, Athara turned to her Master, intent on asking only to hesitate when she realized he might not appreciate being bothered just now with her curiosity.

"I can feel your unease, my apprentice. You hesitate to ask me something that has been weighing on your mind." Athara's cheeks burned as her gaze snapped up to her Master. He hadn't even looked down to her, instead staring ahead toward the gleaming doors of the lift, as though waiting for them to open. She shuffled awkwardly at him calling her out on her nerves. It was that movement that finally caused him to fix her with a firm look. She immediately ordered her feet to still before clearing her throat.

"The ship in the landing bay, the strange green one that looks like it's fallen over backward; whose is it? Why is it here, on this Star Destroyer? It's not an Imperial vessel; it looks like a civilian one." She caught a faint trace of amusement and approval from him through the Force at her observations, leaving her pleased that she'd sensed his reaction. He gave her another pointed glance. She tamped down her pleasure, tightening her mental shields before he could rebuke her on it.

"You were not attentive to the Commander's briefing when we arrived, my very young apprentice. You allowed yourself to be distracted by the ship and in doing so missed the report that would have answered your curiosity without questions." She fought against the urge to shrink away in the face of his scolding; to do so would only earn a second reprimand.

Apparently satisfied that she's taken his admonishment to heart, Vader turned his gaze forward again.

"The ship is called the _Slave I_ and it belongs to a bounty hunter called—"

"Boba Fett," Athara interjected almost excitedly. She remembered reading about the bounty hunter in the dossiers Vader had given her to study on regular Imperial contacts, associates and contractors. He looked down at her again and that elusive approving feeling flashed across Athara's awareness a second time.

"Don't interrupt, Athara," he reprimanded. She ducked her head in apology, using the movement to hide her pleased smile behind the cowl of her cloak. Beneath them, she could feel the turbolift slowing. She frowned. It had been too long for them to be heading for the crew quarters and too soon for the landing bay. A quick glance to the floor display confirmed that. She wracked her memory for what was on the floor they were approaching. An idea quickly came to mind as she realized where they were likely heading. For all intents and purposes, all Star Destroyers were essentially the same. It sped up construction and helped ensure efficiency as no additional training or acclimatization was needed when personnel were transferred from ship to ship.

"We're meeting Boba Fett on the detention level," she said, careful not to make it sound like a question. Her Master taught her to project certainty when solving problems. Uncertainty was weakness, and weakness was dangerous in the Galaxy they were a part of. Vader nodded only, both confirming her assessment and acknowledging his approval that she'd come to it so quickly.

"You will maintain your silence unless I am the one speaking to you, my apprentice. You will observe and attend closely; be mindful of the Force. Do not give into distraction." She ducked her head abashedly at the pointed reminder.

At that point, the doors whooshed open and Vader was striding forward, Athara trying to keep up without looking like she was trying to keep up. She was his apprentice, his shadow. Not his servant or his pet. She did not scurry after him. Thankfully, he was mindful of her significantly shorter strides, and had checked his own usually fiercely brisk pace to compensate. She still had to work to stay close, though.

As Vader strode into the detention block the two officers on duty and their attendant handful of Stormtroopers all snapped to attention. But they weren't the ones to catch Athara's eye.

The lightly armored and helmeted figure was leaning casually against the wall on the far side of the main security consoles and making the officers and troopers nervous. He was the one who drew her attention. They were all afraid of him, she realized. For a moment as the turbolift doors had opened Athara had assumed the fear in the room was because of Vader; not an outrageous assumption considering how the level of fear had spiked further as her Master exited the lift. But Athara realized quickly that these officers' unease had been sparked before Vader had even arrived in the detention block.

No, they were nervous about the helmeted figure who, even when leaning casually against the wall, came across as dangerous.

Boba Fett, her reason supplied, belatedly recognizing him from the holo included in the dossiers. A chill went through her as she also recalled the lists of his exploits and favorite methods for apprehending and dispatching his marks. Dangerous was a very apt word to describe this man. Athara had to concentrate for a moment to tamp down a sudden flicker of her own nerves. It was silly, really. She was Vader's apprentice. If this bounty hunter dared to try anything, her Master would protect her. Of that Athara was certain. But he would have to be insane to try anything with Vader here anyway. And that was without considering that he'd obviously brought in a bounty of some sort; he wouldn't get paid if he were to try anything.

"Well, have you captured him alive?" Vader's tone was nearly patronizing. Athara could practically feel the bounty hunter's irritation, though he didn't move a muscle.

"As requested," he replied indolently before jerking his head toward the cellblock where said prisoner was obviously confined. Vader stared at him for a moment, the weight of his glare palpable even to those not caught in it.

"And his identity has been confirmed?" Though he didn't look away from Fett, Vader's own helmeted head tilted minutely toward the block officers. One of the officers jerked a bit.

"Y-yes, Milord. He has been processed and awaits your attention in cell 2583." Vader's harsh glare seemed to have eased so that he was merely studying Fett now. Fett stared back, watching the Dark Lord of the Sith just as warily.

"Commander Merra will see to your payment, Bounty Hunter," Vader said finally before turning abruptly to leave, glancing briefly at Athara as he did. She immediately fell into step behind him.

In an instant Fett was off the wall, striding toward the turbolift himself. As Athara was about to step in behind her Master, Fett was suddenly beside her, looking down on her through the t-shaped eye-slit of his helmet. His disdain was clear even though she could not see his face. She could feel it on her skin. She managed to keep from shrinking back from the look.

"Who's she," he asked, his scathing tone chasing Athara's unease away, making her bristle.

"My apprentice," Vader answered simply, watching the two of them with obvious interest. Fett made a sound of acknowledgement before taking a step forward. Annoyed by his manner, Athara pointedly took her own step forward, so that one of them would have to give way so the other could enter the turbolift. Evidently Fett, seeing her as a mere child, thought that she should be the one to give way. When she didn't she could feel him growing annoyed.

"Move," he sneered before moving to push past her. Athara's temper flared and, drawing on her anger as she'd been taught, she instinctively threw up a hand, palm out, and pushed. It wasn't a strong push—she was still young and he was a grown man, after all—but it was enough to force the bounty hunter to take a steadying step back. Had she not been so cross and insulted, she might have smiled. He looked down at her again, and she could feel his own angry glare like a brand.

" _Force-using brat_ ," he muttered angrily in Huttese. Her temper swelled again and before she could stop herself, she was snapping back at him, drawing a trace of surprise from him that she had understood what he'd said.

"I may be a Force-using brat, but I am also Lord Vader's Shadow. Remember that, Bounty Hunter. You may depend on my goodwill one day, either for your job or your life." Then, giving him a glare that she hoped he could feel given that her face was still covered, she strode purposefully into the lift, standing beside her Master so the bounty hunter would have to stand with his back to her and the Dark Lord.

A flash of rage went through Fett. Nearly growling, he took a stiff step back, indicating without words that he wasn't going to share the lift with them.

The doors slid shut, cutting off Athara's view of the detention block and the fuming bounty hunter. As the lift began to move, Vader finally spoke, having not made a sound nor even moved a muscle throughout the whole exchange.

"It is not wise to make an enemy of Boba Fett, my apprentice," her Master said firmly. Athara was still too riled up to even try controlling her impulsive response.

"Perhaps he is unwise to risk making an enemy of me," she muttered irritably. An abrupt sound came from Vader's respirator that started Athara out of her anger, her eyes flying around to her Master. She'd never heard a sound like that before. Was that—that sounded almost like—a laugh? She stared at Vader in shock. A heavy, black-clad hand landed on her shoulder.

"You did well, my young apprentice," he said, a reserved measure of pride in his voice.

Athara beamed up at him.


	7. She Was Alive

No matter his decades of experience at shedding his feelings, Obi-wan was anxious. He hid it well. He knew he did. The assurance of yet more decades of experience told him that.

But he was anxious to see _Him_ face-to-face again.

He strode calmly yet quietly down the empty auxiliary hall of the Death Star, making his way back up toward the hangar where the _Millennium_ _Falcon_ waited, trapped.

After all these years, the thought of meeting his former apprentice again was enough to unsettle his carefully cultivated control. It wasn't enough to sway him from his course, but it was enough to shake his calm. Thankfully, it didn't affect his alertness, nor did it distract him. He couldn't let it. He had a practiced ease at dealing with distracting thoughts.

But facing Vader?

It was going to be hard. It was an eventuality he had been preparing himself to face for years. It was his destiny to face Darth Vader again. He'd known that the instant he'd learned of Vader's survival.

He also knew it was the last thing he would do.

That was another eventuality he had similarly known of for a very long time. He'd known the day he left Neva at Padmé's apartment that he would die at Vader's hand. It had been a firm, inarguable feeling. No one had been more surprised than Obi-wan when he'd been the one to emerge from the fiery waste of Mustafar the victor. It had shaken him to think that the Force had been wrong. He'd _known_ that his death would come at Vader's hand. Yet he'd survived.

But then he'd heard that Vader had survived as well.

It was then that he'd known the Force hadn't misled him; he'd just misunderstood.

Now he was about to face his former apprentice again, and this time he knew undoubtedly that it would be the last time. He'd known the time was approaching the instant he'd felt Vader's dark presence aboard the battlestation. He knew this impending confrontation would be the last thing he did in this life. Part of him deflated at the thought, but another part knew only relief. Obi-wan was tired. But he also regretted that he hadn't had more time with Luke, more time to train and prepare the boy as he should.

Obi-wan paused, waiting for the patrolling Stormtroopers to pass the hall where he stood shrouded in shadow, nearly invisible as he pulled on the Force to brush absent gazes aside. Once they had marched past him, he was on the move again. He was nearly back to the ship. Even though the Force told him he'd never set foot on the old freighter again, his pulse beat a little faster in the instinctive recognition that safety was close at hand. His mind knew better.

He unhooked his lightsaber from his belt, the old weapon familiar against his palm. As he turned another corner, he flicked his hood over his head. It was then that he frowned; something was happening. It took him a moment to realize from the alarms and comm announcements the battlestation had been put on alert. As another handful of Stormtroopers rushed past the nook Obi-wan had ducked into, the old Jedi realized why. The Imperials knew there were intruders in their battlestation. He nearly sighed with exasperation…like father, like son, apparently. He should have anticipated that Luke and the smuggler wouldn't stay in the control room. The troopers passed by and disappeared down another hallway and Obi-wan was on the move again.

Luke would be all right, though. Of that, Obi-wan was confident. The boy was so strong in the Force that there was little doubt his destiny would find him. And Obi-wan was tentatively certain he would still be able to help his apprentice's son from the next plane of the Force.

At the very least, Obi-wan had been long prepared for the possibility that he would die before completing Luke's training. So long as Luke ultimately made it back to Obi-wan's hovel, which the Force assured Obi-wan of, he would find everything he needed to continue training, including the way to Yoda. Obi-wan knew Master Yoda was still out there, hidden away on Dagobah. He would have known if Yoda had become one with the Force. No, he was still alive. The Force would guide Luke to the old Master even if Obi-wan were unable to do it himself.

But even the knowledge that Luke would eventually become the Jedi he was born to be didn't entirely settle Obi-wan's sense of regret.

No. Some regrets would never be satisfied.

It hurt to think that his destiny of falling before Vader meant that Obi-wan wasn't destined to find justice for the things that Vader had done, or for the deep wounds Vader had left on him. Wounds that still hurt, that called out, soft and tantalizing in the most secret corner of his mind, for vengeance.

It was taking more effort than it should to keep from dwelling on thoughts of vengeance, of justice. That was not what this was about. This was about balance, destiny. It was what had to happen. But part of him wanted it to be about justice.

Justice for Neva; his love, his heart. She deserved justice. Obi-wan had nearly succumbed to the temptation of the Dark Side after Mustafar. He hated to admit just how close he'd been; how tortured by grief and pain, remorse and anger; how tempted by the idea of revenge, of vengeance. She'd kept him from that, helped him to heal. He hadn't been quite so tempted after losing her simply because the thought of her grief and disappointment were he to turn held him back. The memory of her gentle, understanding smile and calm reason had soothed the ache in his soul, no matter how much pain those same memories caused; the balm outweighed the sting. There were times he could almost, _almost_ , feel she was near. He didn't know if it was a sensation he had imagined or not, but was enough. It felt real enough to him.

He wanted justice for Athara; his daughter, the child he had never dreamed he could have. The one he'd never even been able to hold. Distantly he'd known that Vader was capable of killing children. He'd wept upon realizing who precisely had killed the younglings in the Temple. Force, look at what Vader had done to Padmé and his own children.

But that Vader would kill _his_ child, his miracle? It had made his blood run cold and painfully thick in his veins and his heart stutter in his chest as though it was jerking through its own death throes. He could barely even stand to think his daughter's name, for when he did, images of her as he imagined she would have been would flicker before his mind's eye, torturing him with memories that had never had a chance to be made.

They were distant aches now, but that didn't dim their power over him, only the intensity of their sting. Ah, there it was; he could see the ship now. One final corridor and a blast-door bulkhead was all that stood between him and the ship with the misleading appearance.

The Force began to hum around him.

As he stepped into that last corridor, he found himself face-to-face with a towering figure standing purposefully between Obi-wan and the _Falcon_. In his black-gloved hand, a ruby-bladed lightsabre glowed, already lit and waiting for him just as its master was. Obi-wan managed to restrain his sigh of resignation. So it was time. His mind whirred; he just needed to delay now, to give Luke and his companions a chance to escape.

As the mechanized, rasping breathing echoed in the hallway, Vader began striding forward. His eyes, though hidden behind their imposing mask, were undoubtedly fixed on Obi-wan. Obi-wan couldn't help the absent thought that wondered what his apprentice's face looked like now. He'd barely been able to look at the burns when they'd been new. Would he have the strength to look on his pupil's face now, knowing all that he knew?

Unbidden, Neva's face, her hazel eyes wide with alarm, flashed before Obi-wan's eyes, and before he could restrain himself, his own lightsaber was lit, a blue-white glow mingling with red on the gleaming durasteel walls. Shifting, his body instinctively adopted a loose form of its combat-ready stance, one foot just before the other, balanced and ready should Vader decide to strike. It was so familiar a motion he barely even noticed himself making it.

"I've been waiting for you, Obi-wan. We meet again, at last." Vader stopped in front of Obi-wan, raising his lightsaber in a mirror pose. Obi-wan would never have recognized his former apprentice's voice. A shard of regret ran through him. Yes, it had been Anakin's choice to give into the Dark Side, as Neva had so often reminded him in those dark days following Mustafar, but Obi-wan still could not help the feelings of guilt. He knew he'd failed in his mission to teach and guide Anakin as he should have. If he hadn't, Anakin would have been able to resist the Dark Side.

Vader sounded so confident, but there was a great deal of turmoil in him; rage, frustration, impatience. But then—there; Obi-wan sensed it—woven through the anger was also guilt and regret. It puzzled Obi-wan. In a flash, it was gone, lost to the all-encompassing hate that consumed the former Jedi. There was certainly no trace of any guilt in Vader's voice. "The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner; now I am the master." Obi-wan inhaled deeply.

"Only a master of evil, Darth," he said and he swung his lightsaber. It was a cursory move, one easily deflected by Vader, but then, Vader's answering blow was just as minimally meant. Obi-wan may not have been as young as he once was, his body slowing with age and hardship, but he could sense that this fight was not going to push him anywhere near his physical limits. It wasn't a battle of lightsabers, no matter that the weapons were lit and crashing between them. Obi-wan could practically feel Vader's will pressing against his own as their lightsabers met over and over again, looking to overwhelm him with the sheer strength of the Dark Side at his command. Obi-wan couldn't help but recoil, the potency of the Dark Side revolting to the Light in him. He could feel Vader's pleasure at his reaction, and the Dark Lord pressed forward. Obi-wan was easily able to hold him at bay, dancing out of reach of the red blade, ducking past the Dark Lord, but Vader gloated nonetheless.

"Your powers are weak, old man." Obi-wan was nearly tempted to smile at Vader's attempt to goad him. There was so much his former apprentice was blind to.

"You can't win, Darth. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." He could feel Vader's temper flare, unsettled by Obi-wan's calm and assured confidence. His lightsaber flashed out, connecting with Vader's and darting away, keeping the Dark Lord on his guard, trading a few more light blows before stepping just out of reach, his considering regard locked on his former apprentice. The steadiness of his gaze troubled Vader. Obi-wan could practically feel him sneering beneath the mask.

"You should not have come back," the Dark Lord said, his hidden gaze just as calculating. He stepped forward, his red blade lunging out. Obi-wan was able to counter it easily. His earlier feeling about the ultimate intensity of their encounter was proving to be right so far. One moment he was on the defensive, and a heartbeat later he was the attacker and Vader was defending. He nearly smiled again; Vader couldn't seem to figure out Obi-wan's purpose here. He was testing his former Master and Obi-wan was mystifying him.

Out in the hangar, Obi-wan caught a glimpse of the Stormtroopers guarding the ship beginning to make their way toward their dueling commander, intrigued by the clashing lightsabers. His eye still cautiously fixed on Vader and his lightsaber parrying and thrusting nearly of its own accord, Obi-wan allowed himself to reach out through the Force, worried for Luke. Yes, there was Luke, Han, Chewbacca…they were waiting just outside the hangar, likely trying to figure out how to reach the _Falcon_. Well, the Stormtroopers were distracted now. They should have little trouble—and then Obi-wan's senses brushed against a fourth member of the little party…a girl. Obi-wan nearly smiled again. So that's what they'd been doing. They'd found her.

The instant Leia's image had materialized as the messenger in Artoo's recording, Obi-wan had felt the Force humming with a sense of destiny. He'd recognized her almost instantly, and not just because of the way the Force whispered who she was to him; She looked a great deal like Padmé, even sounded like her. Now that he felt her standing next to Luke, Obi-wan couldn't help but marvel at the will of the Force. Of all the people in the Galaxy to meet by apparent chance…

They were moving, the little group making their dash for the ship. Obi-wan had to concentrate on not hazarding a look toward the Skywalker twins and their companions. He couldn't risk Vader taking notice of them now. He had to bury his joy that Padmé's children were together again lest Vader pick up on it.

It was nearly time.

And then he felt Luke pause, his attention caught by the clashing lightsabers just as the Stormtroopers' had been. It was then that Obi-wan did chance a look, his blade locked against Vader's. He could feel his former apprentice's bewilderment at Obi-wan's suddenly divided attention. Obi-wan met Luke's wide-eyed gaze, suddenly worried for the boy's reaction. He knew what had to be done, but he also knew that it was going to hurt Luke, and the boy had already lost so much in his short life. And he didn't know the extent of it yet. But the Force curled and wove around him, reassuring him that this was the right course. The boy would be all right; he was strong, stronger than he knew just yet. Obi-wan inhaled deeply, before turning his gaze back to Vader.

It was time.

He couldn't help the faint, knowing smile that curled his lips as he looked up at his former apprentice. He could feel Vader's bewilderment thickening, especially when Obi-wan pulled up his lightsaber, deliberately thumbing the activation switch.

The blue blade winked out, falling silent.

He knew Vader would do it. He wouldn't be able to resist. So even as Obi-wan raised his lightsaber to disengage the blue blade, he handed himself over to the Force.

It happened as though each breath lasted a lifetime. Obi-wan inhaled deeply one last time, for a brief moment wishing he were inhaling the fragrant scents of their garden instead of the dead, metallic staleness of the Death Star's recycled air. As Vader's ruby blade cut its impossibly slow arc toward him, Obi-wan could already feel the Force surrounding him as he called, surging forth to wrap him in its immensity. He could feel it saturating his flesh, his cells. Around him, he could swear he could feel his physical form beginning to dissolve. His smile deepened; the blade would never reach him.

He looked up to Vader, but a jolt of movement over his former apprentice's shoulder caught his attention even as his own body began fading into the Force.

That's when he saw her.

Even though he'd never seen her before, he knew her. He'd know her anywhere. The Force hummed with contentment even as it enfolded him, knowing that Obi-wan had realized who she was.

She had her mother's features and his eyes.

Athara.

She was alive.

It was force of will alone that brought a measure of consciousness back to Obi-wan. As the blade had reached to spot where his body had been an instant before, his form had ceased to be, becoming one with the Force just as Qui-gon had assured him it would upon his death. Obi-wan's master had cautioned him though, warning him that it would take time to find himself again once he was a part of the Force.

But seeing those blue-grey eyes—so like his—staring out from a face so like his beloved Neva's, while simultaneously hearing her and Luke together crying out in pain as Vader's blade swung toward him, had given him the strength of purpose to regain himself within moments of the Force absorbing his spirit into its greater whole.

Luke needed to run. The instant he had cried out, the Stormtroopers had realized the intruders they'd been guarding the ship against were on the verge of getting away and a desperate exchange of blasterfire had ensued. Within moments the blastdoor had been engaged with a well-aimed blasterbolt, trapping Vader behind it, but Luke was on the verge of losing himself to the desire to somehow avenge what had just happened to Obi-wan. He could not let that happen. Luke needed to get on that ship. No matter that his strength was diminished in his new existence, Obi-wan drew what he could to brush up against Luke's mind, urging him to run, suddenly fearful it wouldn't be enough, that Luke wouldn't hear him.

But he did, and he ran. Within moments the ship was lifting off, and Luke was well away from Vader.

It was then that Obi-wan could turn his whole attention to where it wanted to be.

His daughter.

She was alive.

There were no words to describe the emotions welling within him in that moment or their power. It completely overwhelmed his concern for Luke or the strangeness of existing as pure, conscious energy without the constraints of a body. In an instant he was at her side where she had fallen to her knees beside his now empty robes. As she did, Vader had turned and was now watching her carefully, waiting in silence as she struggled to process what had happened. Obi-wan knew that look. It was a look he remembered giving his own apprentice, one he remembered receiving from Qui-gon. And as if that look hadn't been enough to reveal what his daughter was to Vader, the Darkness he felt swirling around and through her did.

Yet even the horror of realizing what his daughter's presence at Vader's side meant was overwhelmed by his shock and his growing elation. He reached out, brushing against her consciousness, wishing desperately that he could actually touch her, to prove to himself that she was truly there beside him and not an apparition envisaged and conjured from his most secret and precious dreams. Relief and joy were too small of words.

She was alive.

In this moment, little else truly mattered.

The shock and bewilderment on her face was almost painful to behold, but Obi-wan could barely register it, caught up in memorizing every detail of her face—Force, she looked like her mother; he wondered if she had Neva's smile—how she moved…the sound of her voice.

"Who was he?" She had picked up his lightsaber, the old weapon clutched tightly in her slim hands as she stood, her eyes turning to stare up at Vader. There was no fear or trepidation in that look, only distress at the way her own emotions were suddenly in turmoil. And Vader looked down at her, his own feelings locked away from her. But somehow Obi-wan knew anyway; he was in pain. Vader wanted to tell her, but couldn't bring himself to do it, desperately afraid that the truth would drive her from him. It was bewildering to realize, but it soothed a sudden ragged wound that had opened in his heart.

Vader cared for her.

It was a realization that shocked him more than he could have imagined. Vader cared for her, no, he loved her. He loved her as though she were his own child and he was fiercely determined to protect her because of it. Still completely bewildered and afraid in that confusion, Athara stared at Vader, her expression pleading for explanation before her jaw clenched at the realization her Master wasn't about to give her the explanation she craved. She spun on her heel, stalking away, Obi-wan's lightsaber still clenched in her fist, her Force-signature distressed and hurt. A spike of pain went through Vader as she did, shocking Obi-wan further. The instant she was out of sight, Vader's shoulders slumped, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a weight. For a moment Obi-wan grieved for his pupil. But then his attention was drawn back to Athara and before he could decide to follow her he was, trailing her as she wound expertly through the maze of corridors. Her confusion and pain hurt him, and he longed to reach out, to soothe her as he had always imagined he would back when he had dreamed of the life he and Neva would have with their child.

It was then that he felt another presence reaching out to him. As Athara settled unseeing and unthinking to sit on her bed, lost to her thoughts, Obi-wan felt the presence of his Master joining him in his vigil over his daughter.

 _Why did you not tell me he spared her_ , Obi-wan said to Qui-gon without words. He could feel a sensation that reminded him of a heavy sigh.

 _I think you already know why_ , Qui-gon answered, his tone full of sympathy and regret. And Obi-wan did. He knew he would have been unable to rest until he had his daughter back, and everything would have been lost when he failed. He just wanted to hear Qui-gon say it. _She was safer with him, without knowing, just as Luke was safer with you._ Had he been capable Obi-wan might have sighed…or he might have wept. Looking down on his daughter, feeling her heartbreak over a death she had no idea the personal significance of, magnified his feelings of guilt.

 _I should have gone with to Naboo_ , he said, his remorse evident. Qui-gon's presence brushed up against his, the equivalent of a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 _Perhaps_ , he said placatingly, _but there is no knowing now how events might have changed and there is no changing them now, so there is nothing to be gained in dwelling. What is important is that she is safe as she can be, Luke is safe and Leia is safe. That is what matters._

 _I wish—_ he had no way to put what he wished into words, able to only convey feelings; that he wished to know her, to be known to her. But Qui-gon understood anyway. The sense of sympathy and remorse from the older Jedi deepened.

 _I know_ , he said sadly, _but she is not ready_. And Obi-wan knew the truth of his mentor's words, and grief washed through him. He had to stay away from her. He needed to protect her. He could feel the Force calling him to watch over Luke. Qui-gon's presence brushed reassuringly against his again.

 _I will watch over her, just as I have since the day she was born, just as you asked me to,_ he said sincerely. Obi-wan felt something in him ease, though it didn't disappear. Someday, a quiet, hopeful part of him whispered as he reluctantly pulled himself away.

Someday she would know him.

After all, that hopeful, overjoyed part of him whispered, she was alive.

That was all that mattered.

She was alive.


	8. She was Alive, Part II

He was here.

Vader could feel it—feel him! Obi-wan was here and Vader felt a flicker of anxiety run through him. He angrily pushed the feeling away.

Why should he be anxious to meet Obi-wan again? He was the stronger. He always had been. It was a trick of chance that had left the older Jedi the victor in their last encounter.

No, Vader was indisputably the stronger; powerful and secure in his strength with the Dark Side. His skills were ever honed and ready for the inevitable encounter. There was nothing to be anxious about. He would finally face Obi-wan again and he would destroy the older Jedi.

Yet the feeling returned. A fluttering, nervous, even fearful emotion that was stuck in his chest, trying to claw its way up his throat. Then it hit him; it wasn't about Obi-wan.

It was about his apprentice. About Athara.

About Obi-wan's daughter.

He feared what would happen were father and daughter to meet. Athara would not know him, not really. She might sense their connection through the Force, but she'd be unlikely to understand the meaning of it. But Kenobi would certainly know her.

Kenobi would realize his daughter was alive.

Not only would he undoubtedly understand what the Force told him, but he would invariably recognize her. Though it had been many long years and though he'd never known her well, Vader remembered Neva Adyé well enough to realize Athara was the near image of her mother; similar build, same shape to their nose and cheekbones, same lips and certainly the same smile. Her eyes, though, were all Obi-wan; the same shape and the same hue of sharp blue-grey.

Perhaps Athara would figure it out. How else could she rationalize seeing her eyes in an old man's face?

But Obi-wan would know. Perhaps Athara would be unable to figure it out—something Vader suddenly found himself begging of the Force—but Obi-wan would know in a heartbeat.

And Vader would lose her…just as he lost everyone else he'd ever cared about.

No! He would not let that happen.

He would get to Obi-wan first. He would protect his apprentice from the Jedi and the truth that suddenly threatened to tear apart everything Vader had left.

As soon as he had realized the ship wasn't empty, Vader had given the order for the placement of a tracking device. They would be trying to deactivate the tractor beam, rescue Leia Organa and figure out a way to escape. His suspicions had been confirmed when Tarkin had received the alert about the detention block. Vader had been hard-pressed to keep his smug validation from his voice, pleased at the irritated look Tarkin had given him as he turned and strode out of the conference room. A check with one of his squad commanders had similarly confirmed that the tractor beam had suffered a malfunction. Though he didn't outright order for the tractor beam to be reengaged—not that it would have been back up in time anyway—the Commander was left with little doubt that Vader did not consider that task in any way a priority.

And then he was heading for the hangar. He knew he would head off Obi-wan before the old Jedi made it back to the ship. The Force told him it was inevitable. So he positioned himself just outside the hangar bay bulkhead, waiting. Patience had never been his strong suit, and today was no different. Especially not with what hung in the balance. He felt like his whole body was vibrating with anticipation, an anxious buzz skittering under his skin and through his cybernetics like an electric current. It was both irritating and exhilarating. The Dark Side thrilled at the inevitable clash, the anger he'd been stoking for Obi-wan fanning to life as the reality that he was about to see his old Master again started feeling very real. His lightsaber hung waiting in his hand.

Vader closed his eyes and waited, sinking into the Force to wait, to let the Dark Side tend his waiting and impatient fury, his senses reaching out, probing, searching. Athara was on level five, no doubt looking to the alert that Tarkin had issued. Part of him was irritated that she hadn't listened to his instruction to station herself in the detention level…it would have saved him the trouble of having to track the Rebels if he had more of them to question…but he couldn't help the swell of pride at her stubbornness and skill. She had trailed him to the conference room. It was only when Tarkin's alert had sounded that a flash of her anger had alerted him that she was listening outside the door at all.

His lightsabre suddenly hummed to life in his hand nearly of its own accord.

He was here.

Obi-wan stepped around the corner, his lined face unsurprised and wary as his gaze fixed on Vader. So much had changed since last they met.

Vader had become more than he'd ever envisioned. Obi-wan had grown old and frail, looking far older than Vader had expected. The shadow of grief was written on his former mentor's face. A faint wave of sympathy tried to wake in Vader, but he shoved it aside. No. They may have lost the same things, but Vader's pain was far worse, the betrayals far more vicious. Obi-wan had no idea what it was to truly suffer, the Dark Side whispered to him. Unbidden, Vader found himself walking slowly toward the old Jedi.

Obi-wan's lightsaber lit in his hands. For a moment Vader could have sworn he saw a desire for vengeance flash across his old Master's face. He nearly sneered. So, Obi-wan was not so perfect that he did not wish to avenge his dead wife and child.

He could try and avenge his wife.

He could try to make Vader pay for killing Athara. Vader fought back a smirk, the Dark Side giddy with delight; Obi-wan didn't know she was alive. A smaller, more genuine part of him could feel only relief, though…Obi-wan didn't know.

Athara was safe from him.

A twinge of pain jabbed at him as the little bit of Anakin that remained cringed in shame that he was pleased Obi-wan had no knowledge of his daughter's continued survival. Vader shoved it away. Now was no time for sentimentality. Vader allowed himself to come to a halt, his own red blade lifting to wait before him for Obi-wan's strike. Because Obi-wan would strike first; he could feel it.

"I've been waiting for you, Obi-wan. We meet again, at last," he baited, unable to help himself. Obi-wan's blue-grey gaze was steady and resolved. Vader really did smirk this time. Obi-wan knew how this was going to end. No matter his desire for vengeance, Obi-wan would not accomplish it. His hands itched to lash his blade out, but Vader held himself steady. He wanted Obi-wan to strike first. "The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner; now I am the master."

But then a flicker in the Force distracted him; Athara had sensed him and Obi-wan. Panic and frustration surged in him. He needed to end this before she reached them. His eyes latched onto Obi-wan, meeting his former Master's gaze. A shudder of guilt went through him, bringing forth everything he tried to forget; for a split second it was Athara's eyes looking up at him. He slammed that thought aside, forcing himself to stay focused, forcibly burying his guilt and remorse and allowing his rage and frustration to drown it out. He'd missed what Obi-wan had said in response to his prodding.

But he did sense Obi-wan's strike the instant before it happened and was easily able to block it. This fight would be nothing like the one he craved, nothing like the one from their past that hung over then both of them like a weight.

Athara was coming closer. Vader could feel her presence just as easily as he could feel Obi-wan's before him. He could also sense Obi-wan reaching out himself, searching for—what? But that didn't matter. All Vader thought was that if Obi-wan were to reach far enough he'd sense her. Panic flared in Vader again. Before he even realized what he was doing, Vader was pressing down on Obi-wan through the Force just as he was with a lightsaber, slamming his mind against Obi-wan's. The older Jedi's defenses were strong, he noted, but Vader didn't care about breaking through or crushing him. He needed to keep him focused here. He needed to keep Obi-wan from sensing his apprentice.

He barely registered what he said to his old mentor as they circled and darted their blades forward. He barely registered the things Obi-wan said in response. He barely thought about the movements of the lightsaber in his hand or the one Obi-wan wielded. Vader's thoughts were torn between keeping Obi-wan's mind wholly occupied in fending off his own mental attack, keeping the Old Jedi's senses focused on him alone, and keeping his own senses attuned and aware of Athara's fast approach.

He could feel how drawn she was to his conflict with Obi-wan. He could feel her coming closer. And then she was there, standing behind him, her Force-signature familiar and anxious and utterly enthralled for reasons she couldn't even begin to comprehend.

This needed to end.

His attention snapped back to his former Master. Obi-wan's eyes had flicked away from Vader's, looking toward the hangar bay. But then they were meeting Vader's again. Obi-wan smiled, a slow, resigned expression as the lightsaber in his hands lifted…

…and winked out.

Rage surged through Vader as bewilderment threatened to stop him in his tracks. Obi-wan  _wanted_  this? Nearly of its own accord, his own red blade was flashing down in an arc toward the familiar but aged figure of his former Master.

Obi-wan's eyes widened then, and for a split-second Vader believed it was in shock that he was actually going to die, but then the Dark Lord realized Obi-wan's gaze had suddenly focused over Vader's shoulder.

He'd seen her.

He'd recognized her.

He knew she was alive.

And then he was gone.

How the Dark Side in Vader crowed and exalted! His final true enemy was vanquished, and Obi-wan had realized in his last moments that his child was alive and in Vader's power. It was glorious. But Vader didn't feel it, not really. He felt suddenly hollow, stunned. Obi-wan had vanished just as the lightsaber blade would have reached his flesh. The Dark Side didn't care and it urged Vader not to either; Obi-wan was gone and his emotional agony in his last heartbeat secured by the knowledge that Athara was alive and in Vader's thrall. Vader stepped forward, prodding the crumpled heap of fabric with the toe of his boot, not quite believing what had happened. He let his rage envelop him again.

It was better than the sudden and bewildering crush that had begun pressing against his chest.

Out in the hangar, blasterfire had erupted at the sound of two equally disbelieving cries. Vader's heart twinged in shame and sorrow as he realized belatedly that one of those voices belonged to his apprentice. He pushed the feelings aside yet again. There was no need for that. He had protected her. That was what was important. Athara was safe from Obi-wan now.

He pointedly ignored the faint sensation through the Force of Obi-wan's lingering presence; it had to be his imagination, a fancy brought on by his own fury that his warranted vengeance against Obi-wan's betrayal had gone just as unfulfilled as Obi-wan's hopeless desire for vengeance of his own.

Needing an outlet for his burgeoning frustration at being denied his due, Vader turned, ignoring his apprentice's shock and blooming, bewildered grief. Out in the hangar the Rebels were quickly retreating for their ship under a hail of blasterfire. The princess was among them, being hurried toward the ship by a man and a wookiee. Their last companion stood apart, furiously firing at the Stormtroopers before sending a few well-placed shots at the control panel for the blast doors. With a groaning jerk, the massive blastdoors began sliding shut. But not before Vader caught a glimpse of the boy.

Vader froze.

He knew that boy.

He'd never seen him before, but he knew him. A feeling of dread settled heavily in his gut as he fought against what his feelings were suddenly screaming at him. A feeling of elation sparked in the deepest, most secret corner of his mind.

He was too far away to see the boy's features perfectly, but he saw enough. He saw the sandy hair and pale eyes; he saw the familiar curve of the jaw that on another face had been elegant and beautiful but on the boy was handsome and determined.

The blastdoors ground shut.

He couldn't process it. His mind was abruptly a tattered mess, his emotions ragged and snapping in the savage whirlwind that were his thoughts. Could it be…

But then he felt Athara's bewilderment and pain seeping through the haze his own confusion had created. His anger and rage at being denied Obi-wan's death had faded the instant he'd turned away from the pile of empty robes. He looked down at his apprentice. She looked so young huddled next to the crumpled fabric, her hood lowered as it rarely was anymore. Her slim hand had reached out to close around Obi-wan's lightsaber. She clutched it close as she looked up at him, her eyes wide and vulnerable as she searched for answers from him. After a moment she was standing, taking a small step toward him.

"Who was he?" Her voice was small and pleading. He didn't think she realized how she sounded, or his proud young apprentice would never have allowed the words to escape her lips. "Why do I know him?"

At that bewildered, imploring look, Vader not only felt his composure beginning to crack, but he abruptly felt the urge to tell her everything surge forward.

He kept his mouth firmly closed. He knew if he were to open it, even to try spinning a lie, or to tell her he refused to speak on the matter, the truth would spill irrevocably out instead.

She would never forgive him if she knew the truth…

He forced his mouth to stay shut.

He couldn't bear to lose her. He was too selfish. Once again guilt and remorse tried to flood through him, but he forced it aside. She was safe. That was all that mattered.

Athara's jaw clenched when he didn't answer her, her bewilderment giving way to hurt frustration. Spinning on her heel, Obi-wan's—her father's—lightsaber still clenched tightly in her fist, she fled. Any other time Vader would have stopped her and scolded the girl for acting so irrationally and forgetting her training, especially in light of what happened in the control room after Alderaan was destroyed, but he couldn't bring himself to do so now.

He just watched her go.

She would forgive his silence. She would never have forgiven him had he spoken.

It was better this way.


	9. Vader's Mask

Athara stood looking at the melted, burnt husk that used to be a mask she recognized better than just about any face.

She'd retrieved Vader's destroyed mask from the Sanctuary Moon when she and Luke had decided to start their Jedi Academy. It felt like the right thing to do, to have it as a symbol and a reminder of the temptation and the cost of the Dark Side.

And it was the only thing she had left of her Master.

True, she did periodically see Anakin's Force ghost, but those visits were becoming fewer and farther between as the years passed. And she understood why. There was a desire for peace there, for rest. Especially in the years since Padmé had joined him.

A flicker through the Force drew Athara's attention from her contemplation of the mask. Realizing almost instantly who it was, she fought back an indulgent grin.

"You should be in bed, Ben," she said quietly without turning, knowing he would hear her, "what are you doing up so late?" With a faint, reluctant scuffle, Athara's nephew shuffled out from the nook where he'd been hiding.

"How do you always do that," he muttered petulantly, though the hint of awe all her students had when Athara's senses proved their sharpness was still in his voice.

She responded the same way she always did: "Practice." This time she couldn't hide her grin, laying an arm over his thin shoulders as he came to stand beside her, looking up at Vader's mask. He was getting taller too, Athara noted absently.

"What are you doing here," he asked her quietly, wincing at the way his voice cracked as he spoke. Even as she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her secret amusement at his erratic voice changes to herself, she didn't miss that he still hadn't answered her question. She thought for a moment, peering surreptitiously at the dark-haired boy. His gaze was firmly fixed on the charred mask.

"Thinking," she finally said, deciding that answering herself might prompt him to answer too, "remembering." They stood there together for a few moments, each contemplating the mask, as he thought over her answer.

"I was thinking too," he finally said, proving Athara's theory, "and wondering about him." He gestured toward the mask. Athara made a noncommittal sound, encouraging him to continue. After a few more moments of silence he turned to her, his eyes bright and eager as he looked to her.

"He was your Master, wasn't he? The way Uncle Luke is mine?" She took her time thinking over how best to answer him, studying the eagerness in his face, the curiosity. She supposed wanting to know more about his grandfather was natural—he had always begged Padmé for stories about Anakin, and after the explosive revelation that Anakin and Vader had been one and the same that he'd been caught up in? But a tremulous sensation in the Force warned her to be careful. She nearly frowned at the feeling.

"He was," she finally answered simply, necessitating him to ask after what it was that he wanted to know.

"What was he like?" What indeed. It was something Athara hadn't quite been able to puzzle out. Even years later, she couldn't quite explain Vader and her relationship to him, or her feelings for him to anyone but Luke—and arguably she hadn't even explicitly 'told' him, per se, more like shown him through feelings, behaviors and memories that he was able to read into by sheer virtue of knowing her so well. She took a deep breath, trying to formulate just what to say. It was a tricky situation; Ben was still hurting from the fact that he'd found out Darth Vader and his grandfather had been one and the same from the Galactic media and not his family. Athara hadn't agreed with keeping it a secret from the children, but it had ultimately been decided that it would be healthier for the children to be old enough to understand what had happened to their grandfather, to protect them from the horrifying truth. Only now Athara was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake. Eventually she sighed, deciding to be as truthful as possible.

"I knew him as Darth Vader my whole life. He was the closest thing to a Father I had. He was powerful, protective, and a hard Master, but everything he did, everything he taught me, he did to protect me. I didn't realize most of it at the time, though. I just saw someone who was infallible, strong, even assured, for all his volatility. I could recognize that he was cruel, but we lived in a cruel Galaxy so I never questioned it. I saw him do horrible things, and he ordered me to do horrible things, yet I never saw him as evil, not the way the rest of the Galaxy did," she finally said honestly. Ben's eyes had slid away from her as she spoke, absorbing her words as he looked wonderingly up at the mask. She sighed, slowly beginning to lose herself in her memories the longer she spoke.

"What I didn't know was how broken he truly was; how consumed by grief and guilt he was. His very existence became a punishment he believed he was meant to bear for the things he had done. When I was younger, I think he even genuinely believed in every horrible, evil thing that he'd done, that it was his destiny to have committed such atrocities. That he was on a predestined path that required blood to bring order and stability to the Galaxy. But now, knowing what I do, having learned more of his past and having seen what lay beneath his shield of anger and power, I think before the end he had come to believe that his pain and guilt, his tormented conscience and physical agony, was his penance for his deeds.

"I caught my first glimpse of that when he sent me away," she said. Ben tensed under her arm, drawing her attention back to him as he stared up at her again, his dark eyes wide and bright. Ah, she thought as she recognized the hurt that had surfaced there, that's what this was really about.

"He sent you away too?" He sounded so young and vulnerable, his voice shattering back to its childish tenor. Athara felt her heart constrict; he was so lost, she realized. She inhaled deeply, pushing away the sorrow his expression sparked in her. She nodded slowly.

"When Alderaan was destroyed, I lost control of my power in my pain," she explained softly, "it was enough that the Emperor sensed I was powerful and because of that he wanted to kill me; an act that would simultaneously end the threat I posed to him and punish Vader for deceiving him. So Vader ordered me off his ship, to run, to go into hiding.

"He did it to protect me," she finished emphatically, pulling away from Ben in order to turn the boy to face her, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders as she looked him square in the eye, "just as your parents sent you here to protect you." His young jaw clenched, the hurt in his eyes intensifying.

"Protect me from what?" his voice was pleading and demanding all at once, his hurt and anger beginning to swirl inside him.

"To protect you from you," she said firmly. "Ben, take a deep breath, and calm your mind." His lower lip threatened to shift into a pout, his eyes ducking from hers as they grew bright and damp. But he did as he was told, his eyes squeezing shut as he breathed deeper, trying to calm himself as Athara and Luke had been teaching him. How oddly fitting, she thought, studying his almost delicate features, that of her grandchildren, the one who bore the most visible traces of Padmé on his features was the one who had been hit the hardest by her death. Once his breathing had steadied and she felt the traces of Darkness in him ebb away, Athara lifted a hand from his shoulder, raising it so her finger cupped his chin to make sure he was looking at her.

"We all know how much losing your grandmother hurt you," she said softly, "we understand, and it's okay to miss her. It was sudden and unexpected, and you were very close to her. You need to remember that she's at peace now, that she's been reunited with your grandfather. But I also know that won't stop it from hurting.

"And I also know that you feel betrayed that she of all people didn't tell you the truth about your grandfather. None of us—your parents, your uncle and I, and especially your grandmother—didn't want to burden you with the truth at such a young age. I know that doesn't seem like a very good reason now, that it's of little consolation. But there was never any intention to deceive you. We just weren't sure you were ready to know. Neither were we eager to risk diminishing your memories of your grandparents, few as they were.

"But Ben, your mother could feel the Dark Side calling to you, and she grew worried that you were answering it." A flash of guilt surfaced in his eyes and he tried to look away from her knowing gaze, but Athara wouldn't let him.

"Your mother, your father, your Uncle Luke and I all know the cost the Dark Side exacts on its servants. And none of us wants that for you. So your parents sent you here, to Luke and me, so that you could learn to control your feelings, to keep them from controlling you."

"They didn't have to send me away," he said bitterly, his voice wavering, "I can control it." Athara felt a sympathetic expression growing on her face.

"Not yet," she rebuked him gently, "but you will. You have to," she finished seriously, "or you risk the Dark Side taking a hold of you, and it never lets go." He was quiet for a long time, resuming his contemplation of the mask.

"What does it feel like? The Dark Side, that is?" She frowned down at him. There was a glimmer in his eyes that worried her. But she couldn't lie. She knew she couldn't lie to him. It was something that he was going to need to know.

"I wish I could say it's awful, painful or wrong—and it is in some ways—but…it's wonderful; heady and intoxicating when you let it in unchecked. It feels…good. You feel strong." She knew she shouldn't sound so wistful, but part of her knew that he needed to understand how strongly the Dark Side could call and the only way he'd know that was if she was honest with him. Otherwise he'd end up being helpless to its draw. "But it changes you, Ben. It turned your grandfather into a monster." Ben looked defiantly up at her again.

"But you said—" Athara nodded, understanding his confusion.

"I know. You have to remember that your grandfather was a complicated man who lived a tragic life. He loved your grandmother with everything he was, and when he learned of your mother and uncle's existence he loved them just as much without even meeting them. But the Dark Side corrupted that. He tried to kill your Grandma, Ben, when she was pregnant with your mother because of the Dark Side's hold on him. It was one of many awful, evil things that Vader did, things that we wanted to protect you from until you were old enough to understand." As Athara spoke Ben's face grew pale. No one had told him what Vader had nearly done to Padmé, though Athara, Luke, Leia and Han all knew; they'd only told the children that Vader had betrayed his wife and put his children in danger, necessitating hiding the Skywalker twins from their own father; the truth, but not all of it.

"He never would have hurt her—he wouldn't even have conceived of it—had the Dark Side not twisted him into something he was not. That is what your parents fear will happen to you if you don't learn to control your emotions." His jaw clenched again as she spoke, the hurt resurfacing.

"My father fears me," he said quietly. Athara didn't know quite what to say. She knew he was right, after a fashion. Han feared that there was too much of Anakin—of Vader—in the boy. He feared losing his son to the Dark Side, remembering vividly everything that Vader had done to him, Leia and Luke. He feared what his own son was capable of, knowing what his father-in-law could do. Ben was sensitive and perceptive; he could sense it, but he was too young and naïve to understand the history behind those feelings in Han. Athara fought back her sorrow at the thought that Han was, at times, woefully ill-suited to being the father of a Force-sensitive child. Especially given that she also knew just how fiercely Han loved his son.

"He fears  _for_  you," she finally said. "He loves you, Ben. He worries about you. He only wants for you to be safe." His shoulders tensed again and Athara could tell he wanted to believe her, but that he couldn't. A small stab of pain went through her at how obstinately he refused to believe anything but what he had concluded to be the truth…as did an inadvertent trace of amusement; Ben was very much like Han in that respect, that was for sure. Both his parents, really; Leia was just as stubborn about her convictions as her husband, after all, if not more so. But Ben didn't say anything more, his eyes fixed firmly on the remnants of the mask. She just stood with him, giving him space to try and sort through the well of conflicting feelings she could feel in him. After a few moments he inched closer, and sensing he was craving the contact, she again drew him under her arm, letting him lean against her. The conflicting emotions had begun to quiet, though she suspected that had more to do with the exhaustion written all over his face and posture than anything else. She patted his shoulder gently.

"It's time to go to bed, Ben," she urged quietly, her tone brooking no argument. He was tired enough that he didn't balk at the pointed suggestion, though he was reluctant as he pulled away. Athara smiled reassuringly at him, earning a small appreciative smile in response before he turned away from the mask's plinth toward the library's entrance.

"Goodnight, Ben," she said softly, her hand brushing over his dark curls. His footsteps heavy with deep thought and exhaustion, he walked slowly out of the library, pausing only once at the door to look back. At first she thought it was to see if she was still watching him, but she realized that he was looking back the Vader's mask one last time, his dark eyes unsettlingly thoughtful. Athara couldn't help but frown in worry as he turned and disappeared out the door, heading for bed.

Once he was out of sight, Athara turned back to Vader's mask, her own thoughts decidedly more troubled than they had been before.


	10. Lightsaber Lullaby

Leia was exhausted. But little Ben was very much not interested in letting her sleep.

She and Han had been trading him off for most of the night, one carrying their baby boy while the other tried to get some sleep. But Leia hadn't really slept at all. She was too anxious for her son. It was funny; on the _Falcon_ he slept like, well, a baby. Even their first night here on Naboo, he had slept remarkably well, allowing his sleep-deprived parents some much needed rest.

But last night it was as though he was compensating for sleeping so well the night before by not sleeping at all. He would doze, but only if Han or Leia were carrying and rocking him. As soon as they put him down, even as soon as they sat down, he would wake and start fussing.

Leia was sure he was as miserable in his state of sleep deprivation as she was; his little face was the picture of exhaustion, as though no matter how hard he or his parents were trying, he just could not sleep. Leia sighed, leaving a light kiss against his dark, baby-fine hair, unable to help but smile at the tiny sound he made in his state of fitful drowsing.

Despite the sleep deprivation and resultant frustration, she couldn't imagine loving him more.

Looking up, she resumed watching her brother and his companion as they warmed up for their morning exercises. A shard of petty jealousy went through Leia; both Luke and Athara looked so well rested and awake…Leia just wanted to curl up and sleep for a month. But that wasn't happening just now, so Leia contented herself with watching the two aspiring Jedi Masters cycling through their exercises before indulging in a bout of sparring the way they did most mornings. A wistful thought that perhaps the rhythmic, whirring hum of the lightsabers might finally lull her son off to sleep crossed her mind; a lightsaber lullaby, so to speak.

Leia couldn't help the fascination and admiration that came from watching first Athara then Luke unhooking and activating their lightsabers, beginning to run through their warm-up exercises. Not for the first time she absently wondered if she should reconsider her decision not to receive even some training…there was a certain appeal to the elegant weapons, and she could recognize the value of some of the other skills Luke had offered to teach her. She shook her head as though to clear the notion. She had made her decision, and her responsibilities to the Alliance and the Republic took precedence. Besides, she knew her place was as a leader and a politician, not as a Jedi. It was what she knew and what she was raised to be and she was perfectly satisfied with that. It was her calling.

The gentle hum of the blue-white and green blades added to the quiet sounds of the morning. Leia felt Ben squirm in her arms as Athara's blue lightsabre began whirling and blurring around her. Looking down to her infant son, Leia had to bite back the frustrated groan that somehow both matched and contradicted the affectionate grin that appeared on her face. No longer dozing, though still looking impossibly tired, Ben's large brown eyes were entranced as Luke's green blade joined its blue fellow in a looping warm up. So much for the notion of a lightsaber lullaby…

"Ben wouldn't sleep?" Leia turned at the sound of Padmé's voice, too tired to be startled. She simply nodded. After asking Leia's permission with a glance, something Leia granted without much thought, Padmé fell into step beside the young mother. A sympathetic look came over Padmé's face as she did so, her warm eyes smiling a little in recognition of the matching expressions of exhaustion on her daughter and grandson's faces. The older woman peered at the little boy's face, the sympathy for his mother giving way to pure affection. Leia couldn't help the way her own lips curled at the obvious adoration in her mother's eyes.

Luke thought Leia was having a hard time accepting Padmé as her mother, but Leia knew it was far more complicated than that. Given his perceptiveness on emotional matters, she was actually a little surprised Luke hadn't quite picked up on that fact yet.

Leia _knew_ Padmé was her mother just as she _knew_ Luke was her twin brother. That she had little trouble accepting. It was what else had to be true since those two facts were that Leia was having trouble reconciling. That was what made this whole situation hard to accept. She couldn't quite wrap her head around the fact that her biological father, Anakin, had also been Darth Vader. She still couldn't quite do it. Moreover, she couldn't quite understand how her birth mother could still love him so much. Padmé knew the sorts of things he'd done…Force, she'd lived through some of the worst; he'd nearly killed her while she'd been pregnant with Luke and Leia. It was a revelation that only served to disturb and bewilder Leia more once she had learned of it from Luke and from Padmé herself.

They walked in silence for a few moments, pacing the terrace and part of the garden that bordered the simple grassed courtyard that Luke and Athara had appropriated for their morning practice at the back of Padmé's guesthouse. Leia's eyes were drawn nearly of their own will to the vibrant blades as they seemed to glide in an effortless display that seemed to grow more complex with each passing moment.

And then Luke attacked. Leia started at how quickly he moved, his green blade lashing out toward Athara nearly too quickly for Leia's eye to follow. Even having seen him working with the lightsaber and sparring with Athara before, his skill with the legendary weapon always managed to catch her off guard and never failed to amaze the Princess. It was beautiful and deadly and entrancing.

Athara only laughed, the sound echoing happily through the garden as her own blue blade flicked almost lazily up to counter Luke's move. As they sparred they bantered, just a little too far away for Leia to quite make out what they were saying. After a few dizzying and exhilarating moments, Leia began to get the distinct impression that, periodically, Athara was coaching Luke, patiently correcting his form or recommending a different move. And then they would be back to teasing and flirting.

"They really are incredible to watch," Leia murmured in unconscious awe as Ben squirmed a bit in her arms, looking for a more comfortable position. Absently she rubbed his back, the rhythmic contact soothing the baby boy. Padmé made a soft sound of agreement. The two Jedi seemed almost to dance, the weapons fluid extensions of their bodies that moved with as little effort as a sigh and faster than a blink. A faint grin came to Padmé's face as they watched.

"I know I am no expert, but I will admit, I had expected her forms to be more like Ani's—and at times they are; she can be very bold—but watching her fight, I can't help but think she favours the styles Obi-wan used…I wonder if she realizes that." Leia glanced to the older woman with curiosity. Padmé flashed her a nostalgic but nearly playful grin. "Every morning your—Anakin would go through his own exercises, especially when we were here on Naboo at my family's retreat in the Lake Country. There was ample privacy there for him to practice without fear of betraying our secret. Over time I grew to recognize his style. From there I was able to start recognizing the differences between his style and other Jedi's. Obi-wan was a very dear friend, and I had seen him practice and fight on several occasions as well. I can see shadows of his style in Athara's movements. Anakin was aggressive and showy with a lightsaber; Obi-wan tended to be more reserved, even defensive, though no less skilled. I can see some of Obi-wan's style in Luke too, though not quite so refined." Leia nodded along with Padmé's explanation, making a non-committal noise every now and then to demonstrate her interest in what Padmé was saying. But there was something Padmé had said, or rather not said, that was weighing on Leia's thoughts, keeping her from giving Padmé's voice her whole attention. She finally decided to say something a few moments after Padmé had lapsed back into their companionable silence.

"You were going to say my father, weren't you." Normally the words would've had bite, but Leia was too tired to sound anything but. Padmé's smile was sad and apologetic, but she didn't deflect or lie.

"Yes," she admitted frankly before fixing Leia with a mournful but understanding look, "but I know Bail was the only father you ever knew, while Anakin wasn't. I can't dispute that, and I know it would only hurt you to try." The older woman lifted her chin slightly, and Leia imagined she was holding back a heavy sigh, "Bail was a good friend to me and a good man. I couldn't have asked for a better man to raise you since—in light of how the events that impacted our lives played out."

Leia looked down at her own son, suddenly struck by the melancholy the former Queen and Senator was trying valiantly to keep out of her voice. Thoughts of her adoptive father and how she missed him mingled with the painful contemplation of how she'd feel about her little Ben calling anyone 'Father' but Han. She suddenly couldn't fathom how Padmé bore it so well. Leia knew it would break her heart. Involuntarily her arms tightened around her son, a tiny complaining sound from him alerting her that she'd done it. She looked up at Padmé, trying to push aside that melancholy. The sad expression she saw written on Padmé's face made quick work of it.

Leia recognized her; her sadness called to a secret, precious corner of Leia's memory that she'd only ever revealed to one person; her brother. She hadn't even told Han.

"I remember you, you know," Leia said softly, almost compulsively as she played the memory over in her mind. Padmé's dark eyes turned to her daughter, her brow creasing with puzzlement. Leia nodded in answer to the silent question lingering in those eyes; so like her own, she noted absently. "I remember my Father bringing me to visit you. He and Mama never hid that I wasn't born to them; I never felt like I was anything but their daughter, but that didn't stop my curiosity. So Papa brought me to see you." Padmé's eyes had grown bright and she had looked away from Leia as she spoke, her fingers absently brushing along the plants they passed as they walked. Leia's lip curled in a wan smile. "Papa said that your mind had been hurt, and that you had no memory, which is why he and Mama were allowed to take me in and love me as their own. He warned me that you would not recognize me, but was adamant that you loved me and that, had you been able, you wouldn't have given me up for anything.

"But you did recognize me, I think. Or at least, I always believed you did." A flicker of hurt that Leia had felt as a child as she tried to convince herself that her biological mother knew her surfaced again. She pushed it away, though, with the old well-worn conviction that Padmé _had_ known her. They paced in silence for a short while, watching Luke and Athara sparring while Padmé recomposed herself.

"I did recognize you," the older woman finally said softly, "I recognized you and I knew your name but I didn't know why. I knew I loved you more than anything, but it was years before I remembered why.

"It nearly broke me again, when Alderaan was destroyed, because I knew it was your home, and I feared you had been killed in the attack." Leia swallowed thickly at her mother's admission, furiously blinking back the dampness that was beginning to blur her vision as she buried her nose in her baby's soft hair. It was several moments before she was able to bring herself back under control and a few more still before she was able to begin contemplating something to say in response to her mother's confession.

Out in the garden, Luke and Athara's practice was beginning to wind down, the Jedi couple gravitating closer and closer until the lightsabers eventually went silent and the couple were more interested in the peace of the garden and in each other. No longer distracted by the darting, vibrant blades, Ben was starting to get restless again, distracting Leia from figuring out something to say. Padmé didn't seem to expect her to say anything, though, moving contentedly on from the emotional moment. She cleared her throat, discreetly brushed her fingers across her cheeks and turned her earnest gaze to her daughter and grandson.

"May I?" Leia did start this time, her eyes snapping to her mother's offering hands. Though she hesitated at first, Leia was too tired to pass up a chance to hand off her growing son so her arms could have even a short rest.

Ben squirmed and fussed at first at the prospect of leaving his mother's warm embrace, but he settled quickly once he realized he was just as safe and secure in his grandmother's arms. So much so, that it wasn't long before he was slipping into a true and deep sleep. Leia couldn't help the way her face fell as her little boy, who had kept her up all night, fell asleep almost instantly in Padmé's arms. She immediately tried to hide it, but the former Queen didn't miss her reaction. The older woman smiled reassuringly, laying a gentle hand briefly on her daughter's shoulder.

"Sola—my sister—her girls were fussy and always had a hard time going to sleep as babies. But no matter what, as soon as my mother got a hold of them, those girls were out like lights. I always thought it was some sort of secret trick she had up her sleeve, but my mother always swore that handing them off to someone completely different and fully rested was what did the trick every time, and it would seem she was right. Besides," she added lightly, "you tired him out for me." No matter the flicker of resentment that Padmé made it seem so easy, Leia was still relieved enough that he was sleeping to be able to smile a little at the light-hearted anecdote. But then she sighed heavily, hands lifting to massage her temples.

"He's been awake almost all night unless we walked with him," she admitted tiredly, "so it stings a little that you have him less than a minute and off he goes," Leia offered bitterly by way of an explanation. Padmé gave her a sympathetic smile before she grew thoughtful. It was an expression so similar to the one Luke got that Leia nearly gaped at her birth mother in surprise.

"He's Force-sensitive?" Padmé asked gently after a moment. Leia looked warily to the older woman before nodding in confirmation. Padmé made a considering sound before turning another reassuring glance to Leia.

"Because he's so young, his emotions are likely easily influenced by those around him because of his connection to the Force. He sensed your frustration, your exhaustion, and it kept him from relaxing himself," she finally said gently, "while I'm well-rested and relaxed, which helped him calm himself." Leia bristled involuntarily at what the Nabooian woman said, her over-tired and thus overly emotional mind hearing rebuke that her more rational side would not have. Padmé seemed to notice this and continued more gently yet. "It's not your fault, Leia; it happens with regular babies too. Ben's just that bit more sensitive to it because of his Force-sensitivity." While that did smooth Leia's ruffled feathers, she still felt a little disgruntled. Padmé chuckled a bit.

"Ani was affected like that too; if I was anxious about Senate business and couldn't sleep, he was never able to sleep a wink either. Sensing my disquiet caused him to grow anxious himself. A transference of emotion, you could say. It seems Ben is much the same in that respect." Leia mulled what Padmé said over for a moment before letting out a soft, embarrassed groan at her reaction.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled apologetically, not caring just then how undignified mumbling was, "I must be more tired than I thought. Luke said something similar before Ben was even born." Another soft, indulgent chuckle escaped Padmé as she once again laid a reassuring hand on Leia's arm.

"You should go to bed, Leia," she said firmly, the former Queen fixing the Princess with a decidedly motherly look. Leia grinned at the expression, but she quickly sobered as her eyes fell on Ben. Biting back a reluctant sigh, she held out her arms to take her son back. Padmé responded by taking one of Leia's hands in her own and squeezing it lightly instead of passing the baby back to his mother.

"I can take care of him," Padmé urged gently, "you need sleep, Leia. Go rest. I can walk him for a little while."

Leia looked at her mother blankly for a heartbeat as what Padmé had offered sunk in before protesting weakly, "Oh, no. I couldn't ask you to—" Padmé interrupted with a firm shake of her head.

"That's what grandmothers are for," she said brightly, "I remember my mother doing just the same with Ryoo when she was teething; she stayed up with the poor thing all night so Sola and Darred could get some sleep. I'm more than happy for the chance to do the same for my own grandchild." she smiled warmly at Leia but her eyes were guarded, as though worried she had overstepped. It was with a flicker of surprise that Leia realized she didn't mind the idea in the slightest.

"I—I didn't have a grandmother growing up," Leia said softly, hesitating a little with a sudden flutter of nervousness, "so I wouldn't know what it's like. But it sounds wonderful. Besides, Ben looks far too comfortable with you to be disturbed right now." The look on Padmé's face was so mixed and so full of emotion that Leia found her own eyes growing misty at the relieved smile her birth mother gave her at Leia's approval. Conveying a quiet wish for a pleasant sleep, Padmé cheerfully shooed Leia back into her guesthouse.

But Leia hesitated in her retreat to the room she, Han and their son were staying in, turning back to check one last time, rather irrationally, on her baby boy. She was still a new mother, after all, and it was impossible to completely ignore the involuntary flutter of worry she felt at letting her child out of her sight, even when leaving him in the capable arms of her own mother.

She needn't have worried, though, for Padmé was as good as her word, rocking and humming to the sleeping infant, a contented expression lighting up her face as Ben slept soundly in her arms. Leia couldn't help but muse for a brief moment what it might have been like had Padmé raised her and Luke…somehow, she could easily imagine it was a tiny infant version of herself or her brother in a younger Padmé's arms. She smiled at the whimsical notion, starting to turn away.

But then, out of the corner of her eye, Leia could have sworn she saw a ghostly hand brushed over her son's downy, dark head and a distantly familiar face looking down at the little boy and his grandmother with an expression suffused with wonder and happiness.

Leia blinked in rapid confusion and the—what…vision? Illusion? Hallucination?—was gone. She shook her head, scolding herself lightly for being fanciful.

She must have been more tired than she thought.

Yet, it didn't explain the sudden sensation of warmth blooming in her heart.


	11. Have You Ever Seen Me Fly?

Ana barely realized just how much she was muttering and cursing as she orchestrated the wrestling match between her hydrospanner and the starboard S-foil actuator on the X-wing she was perched atop. For D'Qar it was a particularly warm day and she had long since shed the top part of her jumpsuit, securing the arms around her waist, leaving her in only her sleeveless tunic. But it didn't help much. She was still obscenely hot. And the actuator was being particularly difficult.

Down below, she could hear R3-N3's frustrated chattering as he worked on the actuator adjustment from below. It nearly caused her to smile knowing the little droid was having about as much trouble with this as she was.

Sitting up for a minute to catch her breath, her faint hope that the breeze might cool her down fell flat. With a disappointed sigh, she nevertheless scrubbed the back of her hand over the side of her face, knowing full well that she was probably only replacing sweat with grime.

Around her the Resistance Base was the picture of organized chaos. Everywhere there were techs from a variety of fields scurrying this way and that, droids weaving in and around the clusters of personnel and officers striding purposefully from one bit of business to the next.

It was completely by accident that her gaze landed on the newest star of the Resistance. Not that she minded…Poe Dameron was not at all hard to look at. His reputation among the Starfighter Corps was growing greater with each passing mission, and he was poised to become a legend in his own right thanks to his impressive, albeit risky, moves when behind the controls of an X-wing. And he certainly looked the part of the dashing fighter pilot with his wind-tousled hair and charming smile. Ana couldn't help but stare…just a little bit.

But the actuator wasn't about to fix itself, so with a groan Ana forced herself back to work. Usually she liked tinkering and fiddling around the inner-workings of anything that could fly or drive, but today she was in a different mood.

Around her, a few patrolling X-wings were returning and another group of pilots were beginning their preparations to leave on different missions. Watching the fighters coming in for their landings and listening to others firing up to go out had sparked Ana's longing to fly. She considered herself a good pilot—a great pilot on days where she was feeling particularly confident—and had been flying since she was a child. But it had been a while. She wanted to join the Starfighter Corps, but her Aunt was hesitant to allow it. She didn't have the experience in fighters, after all, and as much as Leia knew Ana's wish, the Corps was filled with only the best and most experienced, each hand-picked from the Republic's Starfighter Corps and a variety of planetary defense forces from across the Galaxy. And she was also unapologetically protective. On some level Ana understood where her Aunt was coming from; both the General's perspective and the Aunt's. But couldn't she at least let Ana try and prove herself?

Finally, the actuator surrendered and Ana was able to get it properly realigned, relieved to have finished that particular task. Though tired and entirely too warm, there was a new bounce in her step as Ana hopped over from just behind the cockpit down into the pilot's seat. She knew that she could run the diagnostic from down below, but since her Aunt was keeping her grounded for the time being, it was a small comfort to even sit behind the controls. With a disappointed sigh as she fired up the converters to properly run the diagnostic, she glanced longing at the joystick.

Boy, did she wish her uncle were here…he always let her fly…

"You planning on going somewhere?" Ana was jolted from her musings by the amused voice that was suddenly over her shoulder. Swinging around, she found herself face to face with one Poe Dameron. His eyes were laughing at her, prodding her out of any shyness she might have been caught by. She had just wrapped up the diagnostic she'd been running as he'd interrupted her thoughts; her adjustment had more than done its job.

"Not while you're hanging off the side, I'm not. I can't imagine the General would like it if I dropped one of her pilots during lift-off," she answered back as she cycled off the motivators. He laughed for real.

"You even know how to fly this thing?" he asked after a moment, gesturing absently at the console. Ana allowed her eye to follow his gesture, permitting herself a small, self-assured smile.

"Since I was a kid, Commander. Besides, they tend to be easier to fix if you know how they work and what they can do." She stood from the cockpit, forcing him to back down the ladder or risk getting hit in the face as she levered herself out onto fuselage.

"You any good?" Ana couldn't help but laugh at the question. With the ease of long practice, she was down the ladder in a flash, standing nearly toe-to-toe with the Commander. She may not have the flight hours logged that many of the other pilots did, but she knew she was good. She hadn't encountered anything yet that she couldn't fly, be they snub fighters, speeders or freighters. She'd even flown a few races when her uncle'd had his racing gig. She crossed her arms as she gave him an appraising look. Neither had she missed the look he'd given her as she'd landed lightly on the tarmac.

"Are you?" she quipped back. That earned a skeptical expression, with his eyebrows rising rather higher than she might have expected. He mirrored her pose, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You do know who I am, right?" He sounded like he didn't seem quite sure whether he wanted to laugh again or be offended. Ana grinned roguishly. She was having fun.

"Some New Republic pilot."

"Some New Republic—ha! I can outfly anyone in the Resistance and certainly anyone in the New Republic Fleet."

"I'd pay credits to see you try."

"Oh?" There was a small crowd beginning to gather around them, other mechanics and pilots catching wind of the conversation between the Resistance's newest top pilot and one of its top mechanics. Not many knew, but those who had seen Ana fly knew she was good.

"Mm-hmm."

"And just who do you think is the best pilot," he asked, his eyes laughing again, his hands shifting to rest on his hips. He was enjoying this just as much as she was.

"How do you know you're not talking to her?" Ana's lip quirked as his eyebrows rose with skepticism again.

"You?"

"Me," she confirmed sweetly. A few of her supporters in the crowd snickered. A few of Dameron's scoffed.

"Why aren't you in the Corps then?" Ana had to consider her answer for that carefully; she didn't like drawing attention to her relationship to the General…that always brought inevitable questions about just how she was related to Leia Organa and she didn't enjoy getting into that.

"I'm a good starfighter mechanic. Someone needs to keep these ships flying. But I've been thinking about it." Not exactly a lie, but not quite the whole truth, either. She could live with it. He nodded absently, accepting her explanation.

"Alright, I want to see what you can do. Combat training flight. You versus me," he said, grinning mischievously. A few in the gathering crowd tittered excitedly. Ana smirked; Dameron smirked back. "Within the atmosphere." A mix of groans and excited calls replaced the tittering. Ana's smirk turned into a matching mischievous grin of her own. She stuck out her hand, a flutter of excitement in her belly when he shook it, grease and all.

"You're on," she said, not bothering to hide her confidence. A cheer went through the small crowd. There was a good bet that most of the base would turn out to watch before Ana and Commander Dameron even made it to their fighters. He nodded a salute as, after a moment—he seemed almost reluctant to let go, she noticed with a start—he dropped her hand.

"Half an hour," he looked over to one of the other Starfighter techs for confirmation that it would give them enough time to get the fighters ready before turning back to her for her response. She nodded back in agreement before giving an actual, albeit slightly more playful, salute back.

Though she had a flightsuit of her own, it took a little effort to track down a life-support unit since she didn't have one of those. Not that was intended for use in the T-70s, at least. Thankfully, one of her friends, Ali Grenar, who was an auxiliary pilot for Dagger Squadron, was able to lend Ana hers. Hopefully, though, she wouldn't need to borrow one after today.

Sure winning would be great, and the competitive side of Ana wanted to win, but even if she held her own against the supposed best pilot in the Resistance, Resistance Leadership would have to seriously consider adding her to the Corps. She had to do well. This opportunity had landed in her lap for a reason. She was going to seize the opportunity with both hands. Besides, she was dying to try out the maneuvers she'd been practicing on the T-65 in the quicker, more agile T-70. There was a particular feint she hadn't quite been able to perfect that she figured the newer fighter's more precise gyros and stronger repulsorlifts would be better able to handle.

As she was zipping up her orange flightsuit, a soft knock sounded on the door of the room where she was changing. As she turned around, her Aunt Leia was stepping across the threshold, shutting the door behind her. There was no doubting that word had quickly gotten to the General about the impromptu competition.

"You're sure about this, Ana?" Ana shot her Aunt a smile. She was so sure, but she managed to tone it back a little for Leia's sake.

"Of course I am."

"You are well aware he's our best fighter pilot. You think you're up to this?" There was no doubt in Leia's voice, only caution. Ana nodded.

"Of course…on both counts. I'm a good pilot too, Aunt Leia."

"Oh, I know you are. But have you ever actually flown a T-70?" Ana frowned a little at Leia, unable to hide her embarrassment.

"Well, not technically. But Aunt Leia, I learned to fly in a T-65. I flew the _Falcon_ when I was eight…"

"Well, technically you helped fly it…" her Aunt interjected, but Ana didn't miss the ghost of a smile on her face. She also didn't miss the ghost of sorrow in the older woman's eyes, either. She pushed thoughts of that aside, though, focusing instead of what she was about to do. She shrugged into the flakvest and made quick work of the belts and harness.

"Fine. But I also flew it for real with Uncle Han. Don't forget I flew with him for a while after—before I flew with Reem. Besides, everything I've gotten into the cockpit of I've more than been able to manage. I'm good, Aunt Leia. You've seen my in the T-65. I can do this." Her tone went from confident to serious, trying to impress on the General that she knew what she was doing. It wasn't just bravado. After a moment, Leia sighed, shaking her head with exasperation. She picked up the life-support unit, handing it to Ana and holding it in place as Ana got it appropriately hooked onto her suit.

"You may not always like to admit it, but you certainly are a Skywalker," she said lightly, patting Ana's cheek. "I remember your grandmother telling all sorts of stories about your grandfather and his nerve in the cockpit. I'm sure you'll make him proud." Though she knew it was on the tip of her Aunt's tongue, Ana was thankful Leia didn't mention her father. She didn't want to be distracted by _that_ emotional baggage just now. She finished adjusting her flightsuit and placed a quick kiss on her Aunt's cheek.

"Thanks, General," she said, a cheeky grin on her face. As she turned and practically pranced away, Leia called out after her.

"Please don't crash my fighter. They're hard to come by, you know."

"I know; if I crash it, I have to fix it," Ana tossed back over her shoulder. She knew her Aunt would be trying not to laugh at that.

She was so excited that Ana was on the fighter pad in moments and, before she knew it, she was settling into the cockpit, checking that N3 was securely ensconced in his socket. He beeped and whistled an excited affirmative that had Ana grinning all over again. He was obviously eager too; it had been a long time since he'd flown in a fighter himself. He'd had the opportunity—good astrodroids with fighter experience were in high demand—but he always seemed to prefer staying with Ana, something she didn't mind.

"You're sure you want to go up against Dameron?" As she was settling in and firing up the fighter, one of the other pilots, Snap Wexley, had poked his head into the cockpit. She often worked on Snap's fighter, so she'd gotten to know him fairly well.

"You know, you're not the first person to ask me that," she said, making a few final adjustments to her helmet and comm. He sighed, shrugging a little.

"Okay. I've heard you're good, but man, Adyé, so is he. That man was born to fly."

"Do I detect doubt, Snap? Have you ever seen me fly?" He hesitated.

"Well, no." She shot him a reprimanding look. After a moment he shrugged again. With the fighter nearly ready to go, he had to shout to be heard over the droning of the impellors and the rumble of the engines. She nodded along with his instructions, so he knew she could hear him.

"Alright then. I don't know if you've used training gear before, so here's a rundown. Everything's the same, pretty much, except you're firing electronic signals instead of actual lasers." She shot him another look, one that clearly said 'duh'. Of course she knew that; she'd swapped out live arsenal with the training modules and back time and time again. He gave her an admonishing glance of his own before continuing, "but that also means there's going to be a delay in firing but the time it'll take to register on the other fighter won't be as affected by distance as a regular blaster. So it might take a little getting used to. Also the T-70 is a bit different than the T-65, Adyé. Ah—" he held up a hand before she could interrupt, knowing what she was going to say, "I know you've only flown the older models. The T-70s are faster and can turn quicker. Don't overcompensate. And you don't have to jack over the controller the same way for inverted peel-outs." She fought against giving him a blank look. She never thought that hard about flying. It was mostly intuitive for her, the ship telling her when it reached its limits. He patted her helmet.

"You'll do fine. One last thing, atmospheric flights are different than space ones. These fighters aren't bad within the atmosphere, but there's more drag, which can mess with your controls a bit because of the turbulence. Think you can handle that?" Ana shot him a wicked smile as he leaned back out of the cockpit.

"That's what makes staying in-atmosphere fun, Snap," she shouted out at him as she hit the control to seal the cockpit. Across the strip, Dameron was already beginning to lift off the ground. As the both of them pulled away from the landing pad, the remaining ground crews and onlookers scurried up the hangar mounds, joining the crowds already gathered to watch the fun.

If she'd been in the old T-65 she sometimes took up, she'd have been tempted to get fancy with her lift-off. But she wasn't stupid. She might have scoffed at Snap's reminder that the T-70s were just that little bit different than their predecessors, but she was well aware of that fact. After all, she got up close and personal with the inner workings of both fighters regularly. She was well aware that certain components had been improved upon since the T-65's heyday during the Galactic Civil War. So she resolved to take it easy at first.

Besides, she thought wryly, it might lull Dameron into a false sense of security.

They were both allowed a few turns over the area set out as the limits for their dogfight to warm up the fighters: no farther than the inner atmosphere, as far as 5 clicks from the base in any direction but no further. She loved watching these competitions herself. And it wasn't Dameron's first. In the first few months that he'd been with the Resistance, he'd flown in three. It was a hierarchy thing among pilots, as well as a way to test and hone the newcomer's capabilities before an actual combat mission and give their new squad mates an idea of they were going to be working with. It also meant Ana had a bit of an edge. She'd seen him fly before. He didn't know anything about how she flew.

Then a voice came over comm telling them that the contest had begun. Ana and Commander Dameron both locked their S-foils and gave themselves over to the fight.

Immediately, both of their fighters seemed to snap to face the other. It was an unspoken rule of these types of contests that there was a first run toward each other; a salute of sorts, but also a test of each pilot's nerve before the actual dogfighting began to see who would peel off first. Ana knew this well. She also knew it was the expectation.

So instead of flying right at him and seeing who lost their nerve first, she bucked tradition. As soon as she was in firing range, she flung her fighter into a sharp upwards roll, accelerating as she went. She knew most pilots wouldn't expect it and knew that in most cases, it would have put her in a great position to take up the attack.

But he wasn't a regular pilot, she noticed with a grin, even though he still hadn't been expecting her first move. He hesitated in compensating for her changing her vector so abruptly, and though he wasn't left quite as exposed to her attack as he might have been otherwise, he was still at a disadvantage almost right out of the gate.

But damn he was good. Ana managed to hold her advantage without doing anything too drastic for a few moments, nearly pinning him in her sights twice, but he had soon managed to execute a sharp, curving dive that went into a climb that threw her. After that, they were fairly evenly matched. Every turn she made he countered with a spin, and every dive he attempted she dumped her speed to keep away from his following climb.

A couple times he nearly had her, and she very nearly got him back. Ana's grin quickly began to fade into an expression of pure concentration.

The turns quickly grew sharper and the dives lower. A few times, Ana actually skimmed the treeline and Dameron came very close to taking out a sensor array with the outer edge of his upper port S-foil during a turn. Ana was actually beginning to surprise herself with some of the maneuvers she was pulling, even managing to fly in sync for a few seconds during one of Dameron's complex starboard rotating climbs. It was almost an accident, but she wasn't about to admit that to anyone.

Dameron was a gutsy flier, thus the best way to best him was to be even gutsier. Well, Ana could do that. As he circled around, sharply ducking in toward her, she decided to risk her untested feint. As he dove toward her, she gunned the engines and shot over him, killing her thrust and twisting her fighter up and over nearly a hundred and eighty degrees, placing her squarely behind him

But then she miscalculated, over gunning her thrusters as she re-engaged them.

And she overclocked on her leveling rotation.

It meant that he not only had time to recover, but was able to swing his own fighter around and almost before she knew it, he was locked on and taking the shot. She nearly got herself out of it too but, in compensating for her speed, her port roll was sloppy. Had he been using real lasers, he would have taken out her lower port manifold and she'd have lost power quickly. With a groan Ana listened as the voice over the comm that had started off the competition declared the match over.

But still, it was a heck of a flight. Ana's heart was still crashing around in her chest from the adrenaline coursing through her veins and the ecstatic grin was trying to reemerge on her face. She hadn't flown like that in a long time…to be entirely honest, she wasn't entirely sure she had _ever_ flown like that. She hadn't had to hold herself back.

Damn, it was a good feeling.

As the hatch hissed open once she was back on the ground, Ana pulled her helmet off, letting out an exhilarated breath before shucking her restraints. There was already a group gathering at the base of her ladder, and as she pulled herself free from the cockpit a faint cheer went up from her new entourage. Behind the cockpit, N3 was preparing to drop down from the socket, whistling and chortling happily as though they had actually won. To Ana the feeling was mutual. It was hard to feel even a little down about blowing the match when this sort of reaction greeted her. A wide smile split her face and she gave a small salute. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Dameron disembarking himself. He had paused for a moment, straddling the frame of the cockpit, and was currently looking across the landing pad toward her. As she turned to look directly back at him, he shot her a salute of his own. Ana's smile widened involuntarily.

By the time she reached the ground, the growing crowd from around her fighter and Dameron's had begun merging. As she elbowed her way deeper into the fray she caught sight of Snap and Ali. Snap flung out a hand, catching hers in a hard congratulatory shake.

"You were right about the speed," she shouted over to him, still unable to stop grinning, "I wasn't expecting to be going quite that fast coming out of that kind of turn." Snap laughed.

"Still not bad for a first run," he hollered back. Ana bowed her head dramatically in acceptance of his praise. Laughing, she began working on her gloves, brushing back the stringy strands of dark-blonde hair clinging to her cheeks once she had them off.

"First run?" Dameron had somehow appeared on her left, and for a bewildering moment Ana felt her cheeks beginning to warm. He was looking down at her incredulously, his lips quirked in an impressed grin. Ana shrugged, a faintly sheepish expression flitting across her features.

"As far as X-wings go, I've only ever had the chance to fly the T-65s," she explained, not entirely sure he'd be able to hear her over the crush of people around them, "I've never actually been up in a T-70 before, except when they're on the ground. I usually just fix 'em." He shook his head a bit before landing a hand on her shoulder.

"I think I owe you a drink."


	12. He Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was originally supposed to (or hoped to, rather) be a future instalment. I read a theory that immediately inspired this little effusion of imagination which I promptly wrote out in a matter of about half and hour and even worked (tentatively) into my 'Lady Adyé-verse Canon'.   
> But new Canon details from different books and now answers from The Last Jedi about Ben's fall and the run-up to tFA make this theory nothing more than an effusion of imagination, so I'm simply going to post it as an outright AU plot bunny that never got the chance to hop into the main story. 
> 
> tl;dr: This is essentially an AU of my AU. That being said, I'm pretty darn proud of it and I hope you enjoy this little dive into angst.

It was as though his feet were no longer his own; staggering, stumbling through the halls he had once wandered with purposeful or sometimes hurrying strides. He could barely comprehend what he'd done. It was like a filter had been drawn over his eyes, a haze; blinding him and dulling him, yet also making everything sharp and vibrantly clear.

There was blood…so much blood. Little of it real, though. Lightsaber wounds didn't bleed all that much, apparently, save when the blood vessels slashed through were too big to be cauterized or the blood pressure too strong in those last moments before…

No. The blood was mostly metaphoric.

And there was so much of it.

He felt like he was going to be sick, his stomach roiling and twisting as though it were a ravening, raging beast trapped within the bounds of his abdomen. Bile surged and ebbed and surged again up his throat, hot and burning, as images flashed before his eyes.

What had he done?

He could barely seem to remember, and yet every memory was a crystal clear as a holo. He'd gloried in it. He'd reveled. The Dark Side in him had fed off it, glutting itself on the violence he had committed in that mindless rage. He could still feel the power searing through his body, rich and potent, making him feel strong and invincible.

But the images crashing and splintering before his sightless eyes only made him feel small and shattered.

You will end up hollow, empty and full of regret and misery.

Oh, how he desperately wished right in this moment that he felt hollow…then he wouldn't have to feel this pain this…regret. He wasn't even sure what he regretted. Those words; he knew she'd said them, his Aunt Athara. He could hear her voice in his head, repeating those same words over and over; her voice so soft and certain but sad, pleading even.

He saw a lightsaber highlighting her familiar, reassuring face in a wash of red, her eyes wide and startled like he'd never seen them before. Nothing ever surprised her. Athara was never surprised, or at least, she never showed it. The ominous glow of red light from the blade had made her dark blue-grey eyes look violet. It had been odd; disconcerting; the implications nauseating. A shadow of rage and desperation hung like a shadow over the memory. He'd been awash in it, consumed by it.

You will lose everything.

What had he done…

He could still feel the hilt of the red lightsaber against his palm. He could see himself holding it. He could still feel the sensation thrilling up his arm as the glowing blade had met flesh and cleaved bone. Nausea swamped him again, and this time he retched, falling against the wall for support as he doubled over, the fabric bag in his hand nearly slipping from his suddenly strengthless fingers. Nothing came up, but his mouth tasted sour and fuzzy nevertheless; he had heaved and emptied his stomach already. He could barely remember doing so. He pressed his arm against his belly, as though the physical ache of his elbow digging into his flesh could ease the emotional one settling like shards of glass in his gut. He couldn't straighten. He couldn't move. Pain radiated through his body, spearing and rippling out from a single, fractured crater in his chest; an emotional torment made physical.

He was burning. His flesh felt like it was smoldering, peeling back from his bones. He couldn't breathe.

His shaking hand jerked at his side, reaching up and yanking his hood from his head without conscious thought. He hoped against hope that without the thick fabric enclosing his face like a mask he'd be able to breathe again.

It was a futile hope. He could only gasp for air, his lungs grasping for it like a hand reaching for a ledge as he tumbled down a cliff-face. His chest felt tight.

His body felt like it was burning, the remnants of his rage and the immensity of the power borne from it still coursing beneath his skin like electricity. And he wanted it. He wanted it all.

He wanted more.

It will destroy you. It would. It was a bleak thought, and the little, broken part of him that wailed and wept with despair and sorrow at what he'd done knew it was the truth.

The Dark Side in him only laughed. It reveled in destruction. It laughed at his weakness.

He wanted to die.

He choked on sobs he hadn't realized were consuming him.

His face felt cool. The night air caressed his damp cheeks, whispering softly over his skin to chill the tears he hadn't known had begun streaming from his eyes. Disjointedly he knew he needed to move. The night was quiet around him, but distantly he could hear the growing chorus of sound that only a raging fire could produce. The faint scent of smoke wove through the air, growing stronger the longer he lingered. That was his doing too. He needed to move.

His body refused. His legs were leaden, heavy. His arms felt weak and limp. His head felt stuffed and swollen and full and throbbing. There was too much there. His hands flew to his face, heels and palms pressing painfully against his temples, his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure. The bag thumped sharply against his arm, his side. Part of him wanted to throw it away, to fling it as far from himself as he could. But he couldn't. It was his link, his reminder of his destiny, a reminder against weakness. He needed it.

Faces flashed before him, eyes wide and terrified. Mouths parted and stretched in silent screams. They hadn't been silent then, but they were now. The throbbing, racing thrum of his pulse echoed too loudly in his ears for him to hear them. He'd hear them again in his nightmares now, and he'd see them forever whenever he closed his eyes.

It will destroy you. Yes. Please…then it would be over.

It will destroy everything you love.

Ana's face hovered against his eyelids; his best friend; his cousin; his sister in all but name; his other half. The horror and pain on her face beyond anything he could have imagined even in his worse nightmares. She had looked at him like that. Tears had been streaming down her pale face as she wailed with anguish, her face lit by the glow of two clashing lightsabers, one red and one blue. He'd destroyed the blue one.

Then he'd cut her down. Just as he'd cut down Athara.

They were the only ones in this forsaken place who he'd utterly depended upon. They'd known him in a way even his Uncle Luke, with his gentle, insightful wisdom, never could.

It will destroy everything you love. She'd been talking about the Dark Side, how it would twist and distort him. She'd been right.

But she'd also been wrong.

The Dark Side hadn't destroyed everything.

He had.

Was this how his grandfather had felt after he'd tried to destroy the Jedi? After he'd tried to kill his wife? He'd never been able to fathom how he could have done it, how his grandfather could have tried to kill his Grandma.

Now he intimately understood how easy it had been.

The Dark Side keened in ecstasy.

He was stumbling again, a hand braced against the wall, dirt and rocks and clumps of wilting grass catching at his feet. He didn't even remember forcing himself to start moving again.

He staggered for what felt like the hundredth time as the rough ground gave way to flat duracrete, his legs going out from under him. White-hot pain speared through his knees. It was welcome. His chest heaved. He could breathe again, but each breath felt like a hot slash through his chest.

"Ben!" He gasped at the sound. It was beautiful and pure. Too pure. He tried to hold up his hands, to keep her away, but her little arms wound around his neck, her thin shoulders shaking from fear and cold beneath her nightgown.

"Ben, something bad has happened." Her small voice wavered with tears where it was buried against his neck. Before he could stop himself, his arms were tight around her, enclosing her against his chest as though he could draw her inside his very body to stay safe next to his heart. His body tensed, fighting back wracking sobs that threatened. He could sense that, deep down, she knew why she was scared, that she knew her Mama and sister were gone, that she felt the Darkness and death that saturated this place tonight. She was simply too young to understand. To her everything just felt wrong. He held her tighter.

"Don't leave me." It was such a soft, pitiful plea. "I'm scared, Ben." Hushing, soothing murmurs were falling from his dry lips, his voice cracking and stumbling at first, but growing softer, more comforting as he spoke. He meant them. A spear of pain and something else lanced through his chest, nudging against his shattered heart. The Dark Side snickered and pushed, taunting and cajoling. He should listen to it. The power shivering excitedly beneath his skin pleaded and promised; what was one more…

One more…

The small broken part of him wailed and wept.

His arm shifted of its own accord to his side as his face ducked down, his damp cheek pressing against hers. Her little arms tightened around his neck. She was so small, especially nestled so tightly against him.

With a twitch of his hand he pulled his cloak forward, wrapping it tightly around them both before repeating the gesture with the other side.

And then he was lifting her, carrying her away. She was so small, so young.

He needed to get her away from here.

He needed to get her away from him.

The interior lights of the ship were too bright, blinding him with prickling stabs of fire to his eyes. The bag slipped from his fingers to fall with a dull, metallic thud at his feet, the fabric forming a heap around its contents. He barely noticed. In this moment, the bag held only a lump of melted metal and plasteel. He knelt beside the co-pilot's seat. He'd paused next to the berth of the small ship, but his chest had tightened and shuddered painfully at leaving her in the space that was much too large and much too empty. Too lonely.

She was going to be lonely for a long time. He couldn't deny her the short time with him—with family—that remained. He couldn't deny himself the time.

It had taken so much effort to convince her to disentangle her delicate hands from around his neck. He hadn't wanted her to let go anymore than she had. Her embrace, her innocent trust had made him feel, just for a moment—a single, beautiful, fragile moment—that he could fix what he'd done.

He couldn't fix it.

But he could do one thing right.

He stripped off his cloak, covering her with it like a blanket. His hand jerked as he went to tuck it in closer around her shoulders, his fingers shaking over the blood spattered into the weave of the thick black fabric, but he forced his fingers to steady, rubbing her shoulder gently to reassure the frightened, pleading look in her large eyes. His gaze flicked to her delicate little face. Already her hazel eyes were beginning to slide closed. She was so tired already, but she was afraid to sleep.

Afraid he'd be gone when she woke up.

Heartache bloomed within him, potent and crushing. He was going to leave her alone.

But it was infinitely better than the alternative.

Yes, much better than the alternative that the Dark Side tainting him was still desperately trying to urge him toward. He couldn't do that.

He wouldn't.

He'd already done too much.

He reached out a hand, brushing back a fluttering strand of her dark hair. And then he passed that hand slowly before her eyes, reaching out with the small flicker of Lightness left in him. One last ray of light before the Dark Side consumed him; he knew he couldn't resist it…he didn't want to. Her eyes slid shut, her breathing slowing.

She slept.

Ben stood, slowly, stiffly. He felt as though he were a hundred years old, a thousand. The weight of this night pressed down on his shoulders, trying desperately to crush him, pulverize him into the floor beneath his feet.

He didn't deserve this child's trust.

But in the moment she had given it to him, running into his tainted embrace and throwing her innocent arms around his neck, he'd known he couldn't betray that trust.

Not entirely.

He collapsed into the pilot's seat, the ship coming to life beneath his numb fingers.

She might hate him for what he was suddenly resolved to do, but he could live with that, just as he was now forced to live with everything else he had done.

But at least she'd live.


	13. Escape From the Princesses

It was beautiful in the Palace of Theed. Neva had been looking forward to this Gala for days.

The last few weeks had been nothing but hard work and sadness. There was so much still to do to recover from the aftermath of the Invasion. What time wasn't taken up by committees and councils was taken up by funerals.

But today was intended for joy. Joy and peace. The parade had been spectacular. It had been a perfect day. The sun had been shining almost blindingly bright, and there hadn't been a sad face to be found. And now, as the brilliant sun was setting and the moons beginning to rise, it was time for the Gala. Neva smiled. She had missed smiling. There had been very little in the way of smiling for a long time.

Even before the Invasion, things had been grimly tense in the Capitol. The blockade had been making life on Naboo very difficult indeed. Food had been growing scarce and the people had been growing ever more tense and fearful. And then the Trade Federation had begun landing their troops. Naboo had no military, only their security force, and it had all happened too quickly for any sort of defense to be mounted. No one had seen it coming. The blockade had been understood to be posturing only on the part of the Trade Federation. No one had conceived that they would escalate to outright invasion. Theed had been one of the first cities to fall. Starting in Naboo's Capitol, the people had been rounded up and locked away in camps so the Federation could ensure the total control over the Nabooian population.

Neva would be happy if she never had to think about those camps again. Her stomach still clenched with dread at the thought of them and at night she still woke in a cold sweat at the memories. Week after long week of not knowing  _anything_ : her family had been in Fara, and her aunt, being out in the city, had been sent to a different camp than those in the Palace.

And on top of that the Queen and some of her inner circle had disappeared. No matter that she tried to convince herself that the Trade Federation wouldn't dare, she couldn't ignore the terror that the worst had happened. And neither could those around her. Whispers had spread like wildfire that the Queen had been the first casualty of the Invasion, followed closely by her closest advisors. The princesses and the rest of the Council were bound to be next, those whispers threatened.

It had been awful beyond anything Neva could have imagined. It was only after some of Amidala's closest advisors had rejoined the rest of them that Neva and others from the Palace learned that the Queen had escaped the planet with two Jedi to protect her.

Not long after that, the Federation started taking top officials within the Nabooian government away for one reason or another with no warning, including the princesses. The whispers had started up again, then. When the spindly battle droids had come for her, Neva had been sure she was about to die.

Though one of the older princesses, Neva had also been the newest, though the Trade Federation officials hadn't known that. They had persuaded and cajoled her to record a message pleading for the Queen to make contact with them or to come home. Ultimately, it was more like she'd been forcefully bribed, confronted with the promise of better rations for some of her fellow prisoners, an offer Neva hadn't been able to refuse. Many of them had barely eaten in days if they'd received any food at all. But Neva had known as soon as they told her what to say that whatever she recorded would be nothing more than bait in a trap for Amidala. She had hoped that the Queen would be clever enough to see through the attempt…no matter the truth to Neva's scripted words. She heard later that day, when she was finally returned to the camp, that she hadn't been the only one made to record a similar transmission. One of the other, younger princesses and Governor Bibble had also given into the same deal she had. That evening had been the first time many of them within the camp, Neva included, had a true meal in days.

It had still made her feel dirty.

She shook her head, shaking the memory free. It was over now, and Naboo was on a secure path to healing. The funerals granted closure and the resolve to rebuild and move forward from the horrible last few weeks gave everyone, not just those in government, a purpose to cling to as they figured out how to move forward. Naboo was strong, Neva assured herself with conviction, and Naboo would recover with grace.

Behind her, Neva's handmaiden put the last few finishing touches on her elaborate hairdo—a twisted and coiled coif at the back of her head with some of her hair left loose to fall in curls down her back and over her shoulders—before moving off to prepare the bottle-green gown she was going to wear. Neva restrained herself from pulling at the elaborate pins keeping her hair in place; she hated having her hair done up like this. She loved serving as a Princess of Theed, far more than she'd anticipated when she had been nominated then elected to the position. But she hated the way her scalp felt like it was being pulled and tugged in a thousand different directions. Whimsically, she imagined that were she ever to be elected Queen the requirement that Royals have elaborate hairstyles would be the first thing to go; an utter nonsense resolution, but it made her feel better.

Not long after, she was dressed in her formal gown—an Adyé creation she reminded herself with pride, smoothing the green skirt and pale blue surcoat and adjusting her fitted sleeves—and was descending from her apartments in the wing of the Palace reserved for public officials to the ballroom where the Gala Event was centered.

She couldn't help but gasp as she was admitted into the already lively party.

It was so beautiful. The grand ballroom of the Palace was lit with thousands of lights; veritable stars strewn in wondrous profusion around windows and up columns. Banners were draped everywhere, their colours vibrantly elegant and lively. Music wove and cascaded through the air. It was perfect to the mood; celebratory, but still bittersweet with a trace of melancholy. No one was yet quite prepared to forget the circumstances that had led to this moment. The Great Peace had been broken, albeit in a sideways manner as the aggressors had been from off-world.

It wasn't long after she entered the Gala, winding her way through the gathered guests, that she found herself gathering a following of the younger princesses. No matter that she was the newest princess by some months, being older than the others meant that the younger girls gravitated to her, often circling around her like little ships in orbit that periodically flew off elsewhere but always found their way back to her side. Especially the youngest ones.

In fact, as the evening drew on, the littlest ones weren't even leaving her side anymore. The second youngest, Kina Vatalia, was all but leaning against her as Neva spoke with the Nabooian minister of Culture, Kyu Tane, and one of the visiting members of Chancellor Palpatine's entourage, a Senator from Ganthel. The youngest at nine standard years old, Dynae Rylline, kept periodically slipping her hand into Neva's before tugging her fingers free, as though reminding herself that, as a princess, she shouldn't be doing that. With a smile and a handful of scripted, polite words, Neva managed to extricate herself from the conversation, guiding her little satellite princesses off toward the buffet. By the time they made it, she had acquired another, Kaeli Terina, whom Neva had to keep reminding to stop fiddling with her elaborate hairdo. It was a hypocritical admonishment, as Neva had been guilty of the same surreptitious fiddling herself all evening. She was nearly ready to attempt an escape when she caught sight of a fourth young princess, Lilane Marlena, making her way through the crowd toward her. But before she could manage to plot out a means to make her attempt, the cheerful voice of their Queen sounded behind her.

After listing names the collective of princesses gathered with apparent convenience—Neva nearly threw the Queen a skeptical look at that amused observation, quickly growing to suspect that the other princesses had, in fact, been seeking her out on purpose—to get their attention, Amidala gestured to the two guests of honour standing at her side.

They didn't need introduction, even though the Queen provided it anyway. Nearly everyone knew who Obi-wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker were in the days since Naboo's liberation. The Heroes of Naboo, they'd been dubbed. Neva couldn't help the excited warmth rising to her cheeks standing in the presence of two of their planet's saviours.

Anakin stood next to Amidala, sneaking adoring looks at the young Queen even as he was being introduced to the Nabooian princesses. His vibrant blue eyes were wide and his face open and friendly, though Neva could see in the way he was fighting to keep his eyes wide that he was beginning to feel the strain of the evening just as some of Neva's fellow princesses were. As if to prove her theory, as yawn escaped from little Rylline, a matching one tried to break out of the young Jedi apprentice's mouth. Neva tried very hard not to smile, though it proved a futile attempt, especially when she caught Amidala's twinkling eye.

And then she caught a glimpse of Obi-wan Kenobi fighting back an indulgent smile of his own. Neva had heard that Anakin had only been Kenobi's apprentice for a handful of days, but it was already possible to see a growing affection in the older Jedi for his charge.

It was then that Neva's attention turned to the older Jedi. Though, she supposed he really wasn't that old at all. In fact, she had to fight against way her cheeks wanted to flush as she realized how young and handsome he was. It was embarrassing, really. He was a Jedi, after all. How undignified, Neva scolded herself, to be thinking in such a childish and irreverent way about a Jedi, especially one who had helped their Queen save their planet. Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice, greeting each princess, Neva included, with a polite greeting and a friendly smile.

And that was that. With a shallow bow the Jedi excused himself, his new apprentice mimicking the gesture. But Neva couldn't help but watch as the Jedi moved away, still dazzled by not only meeting about the hero Jedi everyone was speaking of but by how pleasant he was to look at. Almost immediately she was scolding herself again, this time for being so shallow. With an impatient gesture, she motioned for the other princesses to disperse, the older ones to mingle as they were supposed to, the younger to get themselves a snack from the refreshment table to bolster their waning energy. It left her thankfully free of the hovering younger girls for a moment, at least. Beside her Amidala was fighting back a grin before shooting Neva a commiserating look. It was a look that Neva returned, realizing that when Amidala had been a princess she'd been an older one as well, though her fourteen still seemed a little young compared to Neva's sixteen, nearly seventeen years. But with a conspiratorial look on her painted face, Amidala stepped closer, her glimmering petal-like gown whispering across the marble floor to brush against Neva's own green skirts as she leaned in.

"Now would be as good a time as any to escape from the princesses," she whispered mischievously, a knowing look in her dark eyes. Neva couldn't help the giggle that escaped her, agreeing with a cheeky nod as Amidala slipped her hand into Neva's while the younger princesses were distracted by their snack gathering. Immediately the young Queen was tugging the oldest princess along with her as they snuck past the buffet table and out through one of the open glass doors onto the ballroom balcony.

There was the faintest chill in the air, which meant the balcony was mostly deserted. Thankfully for the two royal ladies—girls, really, Neva had to admit—the many layers of each their gowns served well enough against the cool evening air, making it pleasant outside, especially after being inside where the temperature seemed only to be rising.

"Sometimes it just gets to be a little too much," Amidala breathed after a moment, her fingers reaching up to prod gently at her perfectly arranged hair as she leaned against the stone railing. With a giggle Neva nodded, her own fingers rising to try and massage a little feeling back into her scalp as she settled herself beside the younger girl.

"Definitely," she nearly whispered back, not that there were many people to over hear, "especially when there are three and four of the littler princesses all but hanging off you. Escaping them for a few moments is nice." Amidala winced in sympathy.

"Sorry about that. I always noticed they would pair off with the ones closest their own age, but having an older princess to rally around changed that, I suppose. They never did that when I was still a princess." Neva wrinkled her nose with jealousy, though there was no malice to the expression. She liked the littler princesses…it just wore on her to have them following her around all the time. The two girls exchanged a smile, then. It was nice, Neva thought, just talking like this with a girl near her own age. It didn't happen often.

A soft voice called for the Queen then, one of her handmaidens slipping outside to retrieve Amidala from her moment of refuge. Instinctively, both royal girls straightened, pulling a giggle from both of them as they caught each other's eye. Nodding in understanding, her hands brushing over her gown to ensure it was hanging properly as she prepared to reenter the Gala, the Queen spared a glance back at Neva. "Are you coming back in?" Peering around the Queen back into the mingling crowd, Neva shook her head after a moment.

"No, thank you. I think I'm going to recover out here for just a moment more." Her eyes sparkling with understanding, Amidala nodded before floating back inside, two of her handmaidens falling in silently behind her. Sagging back against the railing again Neva sighed heavily. She liked events like these well enough, but just in this moment, she wished she were elsewhere, somewhere quiet. Wincing as the evening breeze tugged at her hair, further irritating her already abused scalp, she once again eased her fingers among the carefully sculpted coils. A small sigh escaped her as her fingertips massaged at a particularly sore spot, easing the ache just a little.

But a small, tinkling sound instantly had her tensing. Recognizing the sound of one of her elaborate hairpins falling to the stone floor, a mild oath escaped her lips as she straightened, eyes anxiously scanning the ground to locate the fugitive accessory.

A metallic glint caught her eye, turning her head sharply as she glimpsed the elusive pin…darting through the air? She let loose a soft but startled 'Oh' as her hairpin flew with delicate grace into the waiting palm of Obi-wan Kenobi. Her eyes latched on him, wide with surprise as he held out his hand, offering her hairpin back to her.

She couldn't help but stare, taking in every detail of him as he stood before her. His face was kind as he looked down at her, his lips curled into a soft, almost sheepish smile. Neva couldn't help but trust that face. His dark blue-grey eyes watched her back, though Neva couldn't help but notice the reserve in them or the tension playing about the corners of his lids. He looked…sad, she realized with a start. It was only then that she guiltily remembered being told that his Master, Qui-gon Jinn, had been a casualty of the Battle to liberate Naboo. Of course he would look sad, she realized, after losing someone who had been like a father to him. Her cheeks heating with embarrassment, she reached out to retrieve her hairpin from his patiently waiting hand, somehow managed to stutter out a thank you as she did, her careful manners seeming to flee.

As her fingers closed around the slender piece of jewellery, they grazed against the palm of his hand. A strange, unexpected flutter quivered deep in her chest at the contact, a faint, tingling warmth spreading up her fingers. Startled, her eyes darted to his before dropping to latch onto the pin in her hand in embarrassment. A flicker of matching surprise had been looking out at her from that blue-grey gaze. Fighting to keep from nibbling nervously on her lip, she carefully replaced the hairpin where it belonged among her carefully styled curls.

"I should return inside," she somehow managed to say, breaking the tense silence growing between them. "Thank you, again," she offered quietly as she began to ease toward the glass door she'd passed through to get outside in the first place. His smile widening ever so slightly, he nodded his head.

"It was no trouble. Enjoy the rest of the Gala, My Lady—" he looked to her with polite expectation. It took her a split-second longer than it should have to realize what he was waiting for. Her cheeks flushed again.

"Neva—oh," a small, embarrassed gasp escaped as she immediately realized her blunder, "forgive me, Amalia. Princess Amalia." His eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement at her slip, a faint chuckle catching in his throat. Neva couldn't help but smile in response.

"A pleasure to meet you, My Lady Neva," he said softly, a trace of teasing in his voice as he gave her a shallow bow. Dipping in a small requisite curtsy, Neva shot him one last delighted glance before all but dashing back inside, her cheeks feeling like they should be on fire. The sound of her real name on his tongue echoed in her ears, sending a strangely pleasant shiver through her.

Almost immediately Princesses Vatalia and Rylline had gravitated to her side. Fighting back an exasperated sigh even as she tried to calm her suddenly racing pulse, Neva couldn't help but glance back toward the balcony. Though some light did spill through the high glass windows to light the night outside, it was still too dark beyond the glass doors to see if he was still standing where she'd left him.

But almost as soon as she allowed herself to wonder such a thing her cheeks were threatening to flush again. Admonishing herself for being silly, she shook her head minutely, trying to loosen the suddenly persistent thoughts about the young Jedi from her mind. It was not as if she was ever likely to see him again after tonight anyway.

But even as her fingers still seemed to tingle from when they'd brushed against his palm, she couldn't help but foster a tiny hope in the small, secret place where she held her dreams that she might see him again.

Indeed, she got the faint but exciting sensation that she very well might.


	14. The Most Precious Thing

Vader stalked into his apartments late that evening still in a foul mood, his adequately mortal punishment for the admiral who had put him in such a mood no longer feeling quite so satisfying. It hadn't helped that Tarkin had merely sneered at him and made a derisive comment scarcely worth repeating that made Vader wish yet again that he were free to do away with Palpatine's favourite. His temper roiled, flaring and ebbing as his thoughts circled between replaying the afternoon's exchange and fantasizing about the startled look of abject terror sure to appear on Tarkin's gaunt face were Vader to just reach out and squeeze…

He nearly threw himself into the chair of his workstation, the wave of frustration bubbling up again as he instinctively went to massage his temple. The frustration melted into rage as he was harshly reminded of the mask that prevented any such thing. He had been wearing the accursed thing for years now, and yet, there were still moments where he almost forgot. He sighed heavily, another agonizing wave of frustration going through him as the reaction was stymied by the respirator that kept him breathing.

"Master?" He jerked at the small, hesitant voice by his knee, his gaze snapping down to the little face that was looking up at him from below the workbench. Vader bit back another heavy sigh, not only because he didn't want to frighten her any more than she already was from his angry entrance, but also because he knew it would be a futile gesture. He couldn't quite help the sharpness in his tone, though.

"You are supposed to be asleep, Athara." She ducked her small head at the harshness of the admonishment, a reaction that made Vader inwardly flinch, but her blue-grey eyes were soon looking up at him again, wide and pleading. Vader frowned at the expression, a wash of something he thought might, perhaps, be tenderness softening his voice as he spoke next.

"Where is your droid?" Vader didn't see the protocol droid he'd modified for watching and teaching Athara when he wasn't around anywhere. Her cheeks flushed bright red with shame. Vader's brow rose as a flicker of amusement went through him. He was abruptly rather interested in hearing her answer. She ducked her head again, her hands twisting her nightdress nervously as she pointedly didn't look at him.

"I think I broke him," came her small, muffled voice. As she spoke Vader finally caught sight of the steel-grey droid slumped over near the door to Athara's section of the apartments, just through the side door of his workroom. "He kept trying to get me to go back to sleep and I couldn't. I wanted to come sit in here, and he wouldn't let me. So I got mad…and he broke." He could sense that she had been pleased at the time, but now felt horrible. Fighting back an unbidden surge of amusement, Vader reached out, using the Force to examine the droid, looking for damage. He nearly laughed—a truly alien feeling after so many years—when he realized she hadn't even actually broken the droid. She'd just deactivated him. But she felt bad because she didn't know that, and it was far more endearing that he could have anticipated. Beneath his mask, the corner of his lip twitched.

"What is it that woke you, little one," he finally asked, a hand reaching out to brush over the top of her head, smoothing her honey-brown hair. It was such an affectionate gesture, he realized belatedly. How unlike him, he puzzled to himself.

Whatever it was, the six year-old seemed to see it as an invitation and, before he could react, the little girl had climbed into his lap, nestling herself between the crook of his arm and his side. He froze, startled at the sweetness of the gesture…and the trust.

"A dream," she mumbled into his side. Vader frowned warily. He knew the power of dreams, especially in those strong with the Force. He looked down at her, his hold on her beginning to tighten as a sudden protective instinct trembled in his chest before he forced himself to relax.

"A nightmare?" he asked softly. She shook her head, peering up at him with a faintly puzzled but thoughtful expression.

"No. A sad dream. It made me sad." Vader couldn't help his curiosity.

"Tell me." Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember.

"There was a boy like me—he had the Force, I mean—and like me his Master came and took him away. Only he had a Mama who was sad to see him go…" Vader's heart clenched at the unmistakable subject of her dream and the sympathetic sadness in her voice, "I wanted to help him, to hug him or make him feel better, to tell him how fun it would be to learn about the Force, but I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to talk to him; he wouldn't let me. I could only watch as he cried and his Mama melted into the sand."

He couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything. The most he could manage was to try and keep from crushing her against his side. She didn't seem to notice, though, burrowing her face into the fabric of his tunic, her eyes beginning to droop. Shards of pain seemed to slice through his insides as he looked down at her, thrown so completely off balance by her dream that the rage and pain it should have inspired never manifested, leaving him feeling only grief-stricken and bereft…and concerned. Despite the distraction his own feelings was causing, he could sense that she was still deeply troubled by her dream. He opened his mouth to say…something.

But he didn't know what to say. Should he reassure her? Console her? Sympathize? A little part of him berated himself for being so uncertain, but another part felt hopelessly lost and even wondered what he'd gotten himself into; how was he supposed to raise a child being who he was, with a past like his?

She looked up at him with eyes that were far too wise for her age. "He was crying because his Mama died, wasn't he." Vader couldn't say anything; he was trying too hard not to choke on the emotion clogging his throat. He was tempted to try and draw on his rage to clear his thoughts…but it suddenly felt wrong to even consider doing so. She didn't seem to expect a response, though, cuddling back into his side with a sleepy sigh. "Just like my Mama," she murmured, already drifting off to sleep.

This time he jerked at her words, a static-y sound cracking out of his vocorder as it tried to project the strangled gasp that escaped him. A flicker of fear went through him at the comment followed by concern that his subsequent reaction would wake her. But Athara didn't even flinch. As she merely made a small, satisfied sound in her sleep, her small hand closing around a handful of his tunic.

A flood of warmth went through him along with a renewed surge of desire to protect her…from anything. Breathing deeply to try and calm his chaotic emotions, he dipped his head to get a better look at her face, careful to neither disturb her as he shifted nor hurt her with the harsh edges of his mask.

In that moment, he also wished more than anything that he didn't need to wear the cursed mask. He had the strangest urge to hold the child in his arms close, to lay his cheek against her soft hair, to listen to the reassuring sound of her peaceful breathing, to know from that simple contact that his little girl was safe and protected in his arms.

It startled him as soon as he thought it: his little girl…it felt strange to think it, but it still felt so right. She might not be his blood, but now, in this moment, he knew that she was quite possibly the most precious thing in his life. The only thing that mattered.

This time there was no mistaking that it was tenderness he felt as he gently worked her free from his side and settled her properly into his arms, careful not to move too quickly as he stood. It was a bewildering, but not an unfamiliar emotion. Another flicker of fear went through him as, in recognizing what his feelings toward this child meant, he was abruptly reminded of everything he'd lost. More jarringly still, he was reminded of how easily he could lose this little girl in his arms who utterly and unquestioningly trusted and depended on him.

He pointedly ignored the little virulent voice that questioned how she could possibly depend on him, that insisted he was inevitably going to betray her trust.

That one day he would hurt her. A sound reminiscent of a growl vibrated up through his damaged vocal chords, startling him again at how involuntary his reaction was.

No. He would do everything possible, everything in his power to protect her. He resolved then and there, as he placed his little girl carefully into her bed and tucked the covers carefully around her, that he wouldn't lose her.

This time, he was not going to lose anyone else he loved.


	15. Truth and Riddles

Bek looked down at the communications console, his thick fingers absently tracing the disconnect knob. He was deep in thought, trying to reconcile the communiqué he'd just received.

Tamara was now wanted by the Rebel Alliance. No, that wasn't quite right. Wanted was the wrong term. It was more of a general warning that she was compromised as a member of the Alliance. And that was because she apparently wasn't who she said she was. He could have told them that part…he'd always suspected Tamara wasn't her real name. But that wasn't exactly uncommon in the parts of the Galaxy he, Tamara and their underworld associates frequented. No, it was who she actually was that was causing the commotion.

Tamara was Obscura. She was Darth Vader's Right Hand, his Shadow. Bek couldn't quite wrap his head around it. He'd always figured she'd been something. That had always been blatantly clear. He'd just assumed she was something like an ex-assassin or bounty hunter. Something like that. Perhaps an escapee from one of those assassin cults where young females were trained to be deadly from infancy. He could have easily pictured that. Or a young protégé of one of the Galaxy's many underworld arms dealers gone rogue. After all, she was young, far younger than he'd anticipated when he first met her, before he'd seen under that hood. And it took a special set of skills to be able to take on Black Sun ships or have the right instincts to make her way around an arms deal.

Well, he hadn't exactly been wrong, either. If the rumours were true, Obscura was all that and more, wrapped up in one petite little package.

Heaving himself to his feet with a groan, the Gran shuffled over to the table he favoured when stopping in at Maz' establishment. It took only a pointed grunt to send the Elom and Twi'lek sitting there off to find a new table, something that had Maz Kanata chuckling indulgently as she wandered over, a drink for Bek already in hand. Another grunt, one far more friendly and meant to imply gratitude, rasped out of his chest as Maz set the Rylothian Ale in front of him.

"You know, one of these days, I'm going to stop looking so kindly on you chasing away my patrons," she said dryly. Bek eyed her as he downed a large gulp, reaching up to scratch at the base of his centre eyestalk before gesturing over toward a booth a short ways away where the pair were settling themselves down again to resume their business.

"Didn't chase them too far away." Maz didn't even turn to look, but then, Bek suspected she'd known well enough where her two evicted guests had relocated. She only hmm'd, her clear eyes sharpening as she hopped up onto the seat across from Bek after leaning her tray against the booth ledge. She then fixed that all-seeing gaze on him. Bek restrained the urge to shift uncomfortably. He'd known Maz for years now, but that look always managed to make him feel like a naughty child again.

"Something is bothering you, Bek Reem." She finally said. It startled him a little. Not that she'd discerned that he was, in fact, troubled, but rather that she had simply come out and said it. He grunted, eying her warily, mulling over whether or not to try and talk it over with Maz. She knew things, sure, but she was way too damn cryptic most of the time to get anything of immediate use out of her. Eventually things she said would become clear and make perfect sense. But it was less helpful when one wanted answers right away. Finally he sighed, his thick fingers scratching at the collar of his shirt. There was nothing for it.

"Did you know? About Captain Tamara being Obscura?" Maz looked at him with her usual enigmatic but unreadable expression, her magnified eyes fixed searchingly on his face. Then, as was her way, she nodded slightly as though satisfied with what she saw before speaking.

"I knew there was darkness in her past. That much has always been obvious. She that you speak of has never been what she seems. But then, many who come here are just so," she gestured absently around her establishment as she said it and Reem had to grant that, even if there was a second meaning to her words, she did have a point on the surface as well. But then he narrowed his eyes at Maz.

"You didn't quite answer my question." She smiled brightly, though her eyes held a sly, bemused expression.

"Didn't I?"

Bek narrowed his eyes further at the diminutive smuggler, scowling at the almost smug grin she was sending his way. With a satisfied little sound she hopped back down from her seat, grabbing her tray where she had leaned it next to the bench. With a tiny hand she patted him affectionately on the arm. But she hesitated before turning back to the business of running her place, those knowing brown eyes settling on him again.

"Bek Reem, many who come here do so because they are looking to rest and many more come because they are looking to hide. Yet not all those who come here know which they require; to rest or to hide. But the rarest are those who come here because they are lost. And when the lost begin to find their way, great things happen. She is one of those. She is special, and she has begun to find her way, I think."

With a bright smile she moved away, her distinctive voice rising and mixing with her other patrons as she darted around her establishment with a quickness that always managed to astonish the Gran. Huffing, Bek snatched up him cup again, swilling back another mouthful. Her deceptively riddling answer was caught in his mind, though, nearly drowning out the news about Tamara—Obscura that had him so distracted and thoughtful in the first place. And there was always truth in her riddles.

Grunting again to himself, he shook his head. Perhaps, for once, Maz had spoken plainly. But that deduction didn't sit well. Nevertheless, Bek wasn't interested in trying to muddle through it now. Finishing off his ale in one last gulp, he thumped the cup back on the table before heaving himself to his feet again.

He had work to do; this was only supposed to be a short visit, a chance to take a quick break and put an ear to the ground while he was at it. Instead he'd gotten riddled to by Maz.

But as he flicked his credits onto the table and made his way to the door, the ancient smuggler's words nevertheless stayed with him. With a sigh he glanced back into the bar, eyes picking through the noisy but not unruly crowd—Maz wouldn't tolerate that—until he caught sight of the diminutive orange smuggler across the room by the bar.

She was watching him, that sly, bright look still on her face as she raised a hand in farewell to him. With a grunt, one almost more like a huffing sigh, he raised a half-hearted hand of his own before stalking out the door into the dimming evening.

There was one thing about Obscura that Maz was right about, he couldn't help but think grudgingly to himself as he punched in the code to lower his ship's boarding ramp.

She was special.

Only, to what end, Bek wasn't entirely sure.


	16. But Not Stronger

Doing as Ben instructed, Luke calmed his mind, hiding away his new and astounding knowledge—a sister! A twin—though he knew he would inevitably have to do so again. He wouldn't be able to resist thinking on it further. A sister! He'd always felt there was something missing, someone he was supposed to know. Then he'd met Leia and that feeling had slowly begun to fade. She was his sister. Neither of them were quite so alone as they believed, they had each other, and they hadn't even realized it.

He knew he wouldn't be able to resist telling Leia…and he certainly wanted to tell—his thoughts caught tight there, a new line of thought forming along with a new set of questions he needed answers to.

"But Leia has no training. Now that Yoda's gone, there's no one left to train her should I fail." He watched Obi-wan carefully as he spoke. The ghostly Jedi appeared to take a deep breath; he knew where Luke was going with this. "Why not Athara? Why is she not the last hope?" Ben sighed heavily, a look of such sorrow on his face that Luke almost regretted asking…almost. He needed to know.

"Yoda believes that, no matter her insistence or even her desire to be free of the Dark Side, Athara will never be able to break her dependence on it. There is too much Darkness in her for Athara to be able to confront the Emperor without seriously risking her falling further into its thrall."

"You said that's what Yoda believes. But what about you? I don't believe that, you know I don't," Luke probed gently. Obi-wan smiled tightly, but it was an expression full of uncertainty. It was a discomfiting expression, one Luke was uncomfortable seeing on the face of his usually self-assured mentor.

"You have grown into a compassionate and thoughtful young man, Luke," Ben said, still sounding sad, "you've become a much better man than I." Luke watched his ghostly mentor thoughtfully.

"You believe Yoda. You're afraid that she's lost, no matter how far she's come, no matter how hard she has fought. You don't think your daughter can free herself from the Dark Side." Obi-wan's eyes jerked to Luke with a trace of surprise that he knew. Luke met his gaze head on. But Luke also noticed the fierce glint that appeared there before sorrow once again overtook it.

"I want to believe my daughter can prevail against the Dark Side, Luke. I want to believe that with everything that I am. She's the child I was never meant to have, a part of my Neva that survived even when she was taken from me. She's more precious to me than I could have ever imagined. But I have seen the effects of the Dark Side and I cannot help my doubt. I watched as your father turned on your mother, the woman he cared for more than his own life. I watched as he was corrupted by the Dark Side to the extent that he threatened the family he had succumbed to the Dark Side in order to protect. Vader nearly killed Athara on Hoth, and I've seen how deeply he cares for my daughter for myself. The Dark Side is not rational. It isn't merciful. It corrupts and it betrays.

"As much as I desperately want to hope—" As Obi-wan trailed off dejectedly, Luke sighed himself, the weight of what his mentor had said pressing on him painfully.

"If anyone can fight free of it, Athara can," Luke said softly, firmly. It was something he didn't doubt. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips as Obi-wan looked over to him. "And together we can redeem my Father. Turn him back to the light." Obi-wan fixed Luke with a resigned look.

"There is no coming back for Anakin, Luke. He is consumed too completely."

Luke shook his head slowly. "No. I don't believe that either, I can't." Unlike when thinking of Athara, doubt did wear at the back of Luke's mind when it came to Vader. Athara had never embraced the Dark Side, not completely. Even if she had never explicitly said so, Luke could feel it was true. There had always been reservation to her use of it; it didn't own her.

But Vader, his father, he had embraced it, taken it into himself with his whole being. The difference between the Darkness Luke sensed in Vader and what he could sense lingering in Athara were like night and day. But yet… "Anakin still lives within Vader, still fights within Vader. Athara is certain of it. If he were lost so completely, he would have simply killed her on Hoth. Or given into the Emperor's demand to bring her to him. Ben, he would have killed her when she was a baby.

"There is still good in him," Luke said, fixing Obi-wan with a firm look, "I can feel it. He can come back, just as Athara is doing. She can help him. I can. Together, I know we can get through to him." Obi-wan shook his head, sounding nearly impatient as he replied.

"Luke, you cannot rely on Athara's help. She may wish to escape the Dark Side and she may be capable of getting through to Vader for a time, but you cannot place all your faith in mays and mights. The Dark Side is too strong. It is cunning, ruthless and unpredictable. You cannot underestimate its allure and its strength." Luke sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Obi-wan was right, after a fashion. The Dark Side was strong, and its allure held a lustre that Luke couldn't deny. But the way Obi-wan spoke, it sounded almost as though, despite his allegiance to the Light Side of the Force, Ben believed the Dark Side was stronger.

Almost as soon as the thought hit him, Yoda's words seemed to echo through his memory: Is the Dark Side stronger, Luke had asked; no…no…quicker, easier, more seductive.

But not stronger.

Luke straightened, his gaze meeting Obi-wan's as a warm sense of certainty spread through him. Ben's brow creased at the sudden look of calm assurance on his final apprentice's face. Luke smiled softly again.

"And perhaps you are underestimating the strength of the Light."


	17. Conviction

The instant she'd walked into the room Orran had straightened, leaning forward almost imperceptibly with interest. Something about her had been so familiar that he'd nearly blurted out a demand to know who she was. There had been something in her features that niggled at his memory, though he couldn't quite pinpoint what. But no matter how familiar she'd seemed, he'd been sure he'd never seen her before.

And yet…

Then she'd given them her real name, and he'd known. Somehow he kept his shock to himself. Or perhaps he had been simply too shocked to react with that shock, the implications not entirely sinking in until later. He managed to keep his expression neutral but curious. He'd had some measure of political training; his own aptitude tests, like Neva's, had shown his potential talent for the political arena, though not to the same degree as his older sister. Because of that, he hadn't stayed with the youth programs like his sister had and never held office of any kind on Naboo. But it had furnished him with some of the requisite skills. Because of that, he was able to maintain a rational interest and keep his reeling emotions under tight control.

But despite that self-control, he had nevertheless found himself thinking back to when he had in fact met Athara Adyé, though there was some variability as to the aptness of the terms 'met' and 'knowing' her; she'd been barely a few weeks old at the time. Force, possibly even a few days old.

He remembered, as clearly as if it had been yesterday, seeing his father, Brahm, holding his tiny granddaughter as his eldest child sat at his elbow, Neva looking between her father and her sleeping daughter with a faintly sad but still content pride. Orran and the rest of the family hadn't even known his sister was on Naboo, not until Neva had shown up at their father's door, baby Athara nestled securely in her arms. Orran remembered holding his niece that day, his fifteen year-old self astounded by the tiny baby he'd held, feeling an odd warmth deep down as he looked into his niece's large, innocent eyes.

Could this Athara Adyé be that tiny baby all grown up? Part of him doubted, of course; it had been so long ago, and they had been assured that neither Neva nor her daughter had survived the supposed 'Jedi' attack. But another part of him certainly did not doubt. The warm emotion had come back the instant the pieces had clicked together.

She looked like Neva. That was why she'd looked so familiar. And her eyes were just as he remembered them when they'd looked up at him out of his infant niece's face. Oh, there was certainly more in them, now. He felt he could almost see the harsh realities and dark cast of this young woman's life even if her gaze was guarded and unreadable.

And she was certainly spirited like Neva, though Neva's strong will had been disguised by a calm exterior and near endless patience. But his sister had also had a temper, no matter how hard one needed to work to set it off.

Judging by the sparking glints in Athara's eyes as she had argued with Alderaan's last princess, Athara had inherited that too…

More than that, Neva's will had been a force of nature. Once she'd made up her mind to do something, she rarely backed down. Athara seemed rather like her mother in that regard as well. That became abundantly clear when she refused outright to help the Alliance against Darth Vader specifically. He knew just from his memories of Neva that the set of Athara's jaw and the steel in her expression had been a clear sign of just how serious she was in her refusal to give them Vader.

It had been resoundingly unpopular within the Advisory Council and High Command. A few, Princess Leia most vocal of all, wanted to see her locked up and interrogated until they got every usable bit of information out of her. Others, though hoping for the same thing, were far more pragmatic and seemed to realize there was no way Vader's Shadow would submit easily to any such thing and would be even more unlikely to break under anything short of all out torture…and even that was debatable. But there were still more of them who seemed to recognize that they'd had an opportunity presented to them that they couldn't afford to pass up, no matter the risks and despite her astonishing caveat.

Risks that, admittedly, Orran thought were ludicrous.

He might not know Athara, but if she were anything like Neva, a conclusion which Orran's limited observation seemed to support, she was genuine in her intent to defect to the Alliance. She arguably already had.

Thankfully, those who were in favour of accepting Athara's defection as legitimate pending a complete debriefing outweighed those in favour of simply locking her away. Not that Orran saw either as immediately benefitting Athara.

She was still getting locked away, and Orran had a sneaking suspicion that certain members, like Princess Leia or General Draven, would do their utmost to find a way to keep Athara in custody indefinitely, too paranoid of the slight possibility that she could be trying to play them. It was a possibility, he supposed, but a very unlikely one.

If only she could give up Vader, he mused. It would certainly go a long way toward assuring the Council and High Command that she was truly devoted to taking down the Empire.

"Why won't she give him up," Orran couldn't help but say aloud, still puzzled as to why. Surely she knew what he'd done to her, to her mother…wouldn't she? Sitting on the opposite side of the conference table, Skywalker shrugged, looking just as troubled and just as lost in thought. Orran watched him thoughtfully, his own mind still working furiously.

The younger man meant something to Athara. That had been abundantly clear to Orran even before Skywalker had stepped up and offered to take responsibility for the former Imperial agent. He possibly even loved her. And she meant just as much to the young Commander too. Orran's hand rose to rest against his chin. If he were to somehow manage to organize a contingency that would keep Athara from being thrown in a cell for the rest of the war, he knew without a doubt Skywalker would be on board in a heartbeat. But all that could wait for now. There were other options to explore first. If Skywalker and Athara cared for each other as much as Orran suspected, Skywalker likely knew her better than just about anyone else. Certainly better than Orran did. If there was a way to convince Athara to be as cooperative as possible, this pilot would know.

That's why they'd been discussing Athara's situation in circles for nearly an hour already.

Even as Orran considered him, something in the young Commander's expression changed, something Orran couldn't define, save to suppose he'd had a thought.

"She thinks he can come back…she thinks he can come back from the Dark Side," he murmured, sounding somewhere between awed at his epiphany and appalled. Orran frowned.

"He? Vader?" Skywalker looked up, his bright blue eyes wide even as they grew thoughtful again. He nodded, leaning forward in his chair, his arms bracing on the table. A flicker of uncertainty and apprehension flickered in those unguarded eyes, but Skywalker blinked it away.

"She's working her way back to the Light herself. She has been ever since I've known her. And she's making progress too. She has to be hoping that she can convince him to turn back too. He obviously means a great deal to her." Open as Luke's body language and expressions were, there was something guarded in the way he was speaking of Athara and Vader that had Orran curious. There was more there that the younger man was unwilling to get into. But Orran knew better than to pry, knowing from the Commander's expression alone that were he to try, he wouldn't achieve anything but to make Skywalker distrust him. And considering how important Athara could potentially be for the Alliance, how important she already seemed to be to Darth Vader? How important she was to him? Orran couldn't risk alienating his link to his niece, not when so much could potentially rest on her knowledge and her shoulders. Orran sighed.

"Either way, she could be our key to Vader. If she was close enough to him to know—" Skywalker gave him an admonishing look.

"You know she won't do that, Adyé, we just discussed—" Orran held up a hand in peace, silencing the Commander.

"You misunderstand. I know she won't betray him. She made that quite obvious herself and you have confirmed that for me. But that doesn't mean she can't be the key to him." Luke frowned, not quite following his train of thought. Orran tapped a finger on his chin as he put his thoughts in order. "If she can convince him to stay out of the fight against the Emperor, or better yet, to turn on him, even join with us, think of the implications." But Luke was shaking his head even as Orran spoke, though there was nevertheless a thoughtful light in his eyes.

"Vader is the Emperor's apprentice just as Athara is his. What makes you think he will betray his Master if she cannot? Just as she won't betray Vader, Vader won't betray Palpatine."

"Yet he blatantly defied the Emperor to save her life," Orran pointed out. Luke started, as though just realizing the significance of that fact. "She has influence with him. That much is clear. If she can turn him against the Emperor…" Luke's eyes narrowed in thought, but a wary expression came over his face.

"We can't ask her to do that, Commander. She's already risked more than enough to help us to ask her to take a risk like that," the pilot said softly. Slowly, Orran nodded, knowing Luke was right. It was an idea only, a logical leap from the thoughts running through his head. He wasn't desperate enough to do any such thing either, not when it was his niece, his beloved sister's only child, they were talking about. A little part of him almost wanted to let the Council keep her locked up if it meant keeping her safely out of harm's way. But another part of him knew Neva would be adamantly against any such thing, even if she knew it meant her daughter would be heading out into danger. It was the right thing to do, and Orran knew Neva would insist on doing what was right.

Even if it meant breaking her daughter out of Alliance custody.

His lip quirked as he shrugged.

"No, you're right. We can't, but it's not something we can ignore, either." Luke leaned back again in his seat, frustration ghosting over his face.

"Not that it does us much good." Orran met Skywalker's eye with a questioning look, silently urging the younger man to elaborate. Luke gestured absently out beyond the hull of the capital ship they currently sat in, before waving loosely around their surroundings, "Vader's out there and she's here, locked up until the Alliance's interrogators are done with her. And who knows when that will be, if that day ever comes." A slow, pleased smile came to Orran's face, drawing the wary look back to Luke's face. If there was one thing he had shared with his sister, it was his conviction to doing the right thing.

"Then I suppose we need to think of a way to get her back out into the Galaxy where she can make an actual difference."

After a moment Luke smiled conspiratorially back.


	18. The Trouble With Squad-mates

He had to admit that, so far as ships went, the _Amaran_ _Flame_ was fairly large, especially when compared with the _Falcon_ , snub-fighters or, well, a person. But right now, Luke was finding it entirely too small.

No matter where he went, he couldn't seem to escape his squad-mates, and no matter what he said—or didn't say, even—they wouldn't leave him alone. Especially Hobbie and Dak. He suspected Wes would be on his case too if he'd been on this mission, but that was of little consolation. Wedge, at least, was mostly staying out of it, but every now and then he'd add in his own quips and comments, adding to the heckling. They all seemed intent on tormenting him to within an inch of his sanity.

Worse, they seemed particularly intent on making a fool out of him around Tamara.

He knew perfectly well he liked her. As more than a friend. But his squad-mates had made absolutely sure he knew, not that they'd really needed to. He'd been attracted to her—no, drawn was a better way to put it, at least at first; it had been more than simple attraction—right from their first encounter on Dantooine. But then, it was hard not to be. Tamara was young, beautiful and supremely confident. She was witty, she was smart and she was observant. She was bold when she wanted to, hard when it was necessary but could also be reserved and patient when she needed to be. She didn't let anyone take advantage of her. He could go on and on.

And she just seemed to understand him, and he was fairly certain it wasn't just because of her comparative mastery of the Force. Despite her own teasing and her insistent use of the nickname 'Farmboy'—a nickname he no longer minded, when it came from her…not that he was about to tell her that—she still respected him despite his inexperience, and had far more faith in him and his untrained Force abilities than he thought he deserved. And even though there were times when he severely missed Ben's calm patience, she took her tutoring of him seriously. He enjoyed their time together, their training sessions, even despite his limited progress. They just seemed to work well together. And even though he had nowhere near the skills she did, he still somehow felt he knew Tamara instinctively. There were times, even, when he could tell her moods better than anyone else just by a flash in her blue-grey eyes, a shift in her body language or a twitch at the corner of her lip.

Which led back to his blasted squad-mates. There was nothing going on between him and Tamara—not that he didn't want there to be—but they seemed certain there was. Especially since Wedge had first picked up on Luke's growing feelings for the Lady Captain just before she'd thrown in officially with the Alliance.

Wedge was just being his usual, genial yet unintentionally perceptive self when he'd asked Luke if he'd made any sort of move on Tamara. When Luke had started, stammering out questions on what Wedge was talking about, the other pilot had merely shrugged, stating it was obvious that Luke liked her. Luke hadn't thought it obvious at all. He'd barely even realized his initial admiration of the young Captain had shifted into something else in the first place.

It had all gone downhill from there.

In his defense, Wedge hadn't realized Dak had entered the mess and just made it into earshot when he'd asked, what the Corellian fighter pilot had thought, was a perfectly innocent question. But Luke still had to fight back the urge to scowl every time he saw Antilles now. To his credit, Wedge nearly always wore an apologetic expression around Luke since then…save when he was enjoying the entertainment fueled by the other knuckleheads in the squadron… Dak, on the other hand, was a notorious gossip and had quickly seen to informing the rest of the squadron, making sure they knew about Luke's 'crush.' Of course, Hobbie, not wanting to miss out on the fun, had quickly taken up with Dak in heckling Luke and Wes hadn't been far behind.

Usually, Luke was able to avoid too much in the way of teasing by virtue of being the Rogue Group commander and he was mostly able to ignore the ribbing that came after he 'disappeared' to meet up with Tamara for training, not that he had much choice, there. His mates, of course, always took it the wrong way upon figuring out just who it was he met up with, but Luke was helpless to correct them since his Jedi training had to be kept secret.

And now he was trapped on a ship with his squad-mates and the woman he was beginning to fall in love with and he couldn't escape any of them. He froze at how easily the thought had surfaced and how natural it felt.

He certainly liked her, but could he really be in love with her? Force, he hadn't even told her he _liked_ her! He'd certainly never kissed her…though, he admitted, and not for the first time, he certainly wasn't opposed to the idea. Involuntarily he felt his cheeks burning, his thoughts now firmly stuck on the idea of kissing Tamara…feeling her in his arms as he tasted her soft-looking lips…watching those vibrant blue-grey eyes flutter shut as her hands found their way around his neck, threading into his hair as she pressed closer…

With a jerk he started in his seat as the door to the common area he was holed up in whooshed open. His cheeks burning hotter yet, he forcefully shoved all thoughts of him and Tamara, fanciful and improbable as they were, aside. She was his tutor and, despite technically being younger than he was, had lightyears of life experience on him. She wasn't likely to like him back, so why was he dwelling?

He tried so hard not to think of things like that, especially not around her. Sometimes she could sense what he was thinking with the Force, and once or twice she'd even all but read his mind. More often, though, she didn't even need to use the Force, instead seeming to know what he was thinking with only a simple glance, reading his face as easily as she could read a datapad.

Inhaling deeply, still struggling to lock away the decidedly unlikely scenario his imagination had cooked up, he locked his focus on the report he was trying to work on detailing their so far unsuccessful search for a location for the Alliance's new base as Hobbie sauntered into the room. Luke had to hide a groan at the impish expression he caught out of the corner of his eye as his friend realized just who it was he'd come across.

"You'd better go find your girl, Skywalker," Hobbie said as he flopped down next to Luke, "it seems Solo's putting the moves on her." Luke refrained from rolling his eyes, having learned better than to feed into Hobbie's fun more than necessary.

"She's a Captain for the Alliance, Hobbie," Luke said as patiently as he could manage, not looking up from the datapad in his hands, "one of our best supply runners, and an experienced smuggler with a formidable reputation. So I'd be careful what you say, if I were you." He glanced up, trying not to scowl at the roguish expression still plastered to Hobbie's face. He was trying to sound firm, as though he was seeing the comments only from a Commander's standpoint and not like a friend who was on the brink of being heckled to the point of insanity. "And she's not 'my girl,'" he added with exasperation. Not that he didn't want her to be, an irritatingly accurate little voice in the back of his mind supplied. He nearly shook his head to try and banish the thought. Apparently his own mind wasn't interested in helping him out, either.

Hobbie only grinned impishly.

"Only because you haven't made a move yourself. Careful, Skywalker," he teased, "or you're going to lose out to Captain Solo. I can tell; that man has a way with women. He'll snatch her right out from under your nose." Luke nearly snorted; he was pretty sure Tamara could walk all over Han if she wanted to. Besides, he was also fairly certain Han's charm didn't have quite the same effect on Tamara as most women, though that might just be wishful thinking. Luke shook his head at Hobbie's antics. The man was being absurd. It was fairly obvious—or at least, Luke thought it was—that there was nothing but friendship between the two smuggling captains.

More than that, Luke was also growing more convinced by the day that Han was more than a little interested in Leia. So the pirate wasn't about to go chasing anyone else when Leia was leading him on her own merry chase, especially when Luke was fairly certain Han was smart enough not to risk seriously crossing either woman by pursuing both of them, much less risk crossing both of them at the same time. The bounties on his head would be the least of his problems if that were to happen. Luke nearly chuckled at the thought.

No, Han liked Leia and saw Tamara as a friend only. And Tamara saw Han in the same light. It was possibly even why the two had become such fast friends in the first place; neither had seen the other as anything more than a potential friend.

Standing, Luke shot Hobbie a reprimanding look that the other pilot handily ignored before Luke retreated from the room, trying hard not to appear like he was running. As soon as the door hissed shut, Luke was leaning back against the bulkhead with a frustrated groan, carding his hand through his hair before scrubbing that same hand over his face. His squad-mates were definitely _not_ making it easy to be on this ship.

Off around the corner of the corridor, Luke was abruptly aware of another familiar pair of voices approaching; likely hoping for the same opportunity that Hobbie had just taken advantage of. Straightening, Luke was slipping off in the other direction, making his way toward the cockpit, where he knew Tamara—and likely Han, if Hobbie was to be believed—would be waiting out the majority of the current hyperspace jump.

He knew how it was likely to be perceived, but Luke also knew that, in waiting out the trip in Tamara's company, he was going to be saving himself from the almost constant teasing. At least for the duration of the hyperspace jump.

His squad-mates might be idiots in this matter, but they were smart enough to know not to keep it up in her presence; she intimidated them, Luke remembered with a wicked chuckle, so there was no way they'd mess with him about her within her hearing.

At least he hoped not. They'd come close a few times, hinting and ribbing him while she was nearby but not quite in earshot, earning him a few quizzical glances from the Lady Captain.

A little part of him was beginning to wish they would, though. It'd be worth it to see her take them down a few notches. Force, she'd probably just shoot them one of her sharp, knowing glares and they'd be running for cover.

In moments he had reached the cockpit, thankfully not meeting up with any more of his pilots along the way. He also discovered that Hobbie had been right…to a point, of course. Han was passing the time in the cockpit with Tamara. But Luke couldn't for the life of him figure out how the other pilot could interpret the playfully barbed conversation between the two as Han 'putting the moves' on Tamara. For one thing, she was giving just as good as she got. Luke supposed it could be considered flirtatious, but only just and only in the spirit of fun. But it was more playful bickering than flirting…wasn't it? But then Han and Leia's interactions came unwillingly to mind, and Luke suddenly found himself fighting back a little wave of doubt.

He was also suddenly paying closer attention to the two smugglers' interaction. Could she really like Han? Luke tried to be discreet as he studied the two of them bantering, comments and insults flying like blasterfire between them. She certainly was far easier around Han than anyone else, letting down at least part of the guard that she had up almost constantly around everyone else save Luke. She sat relaxed, almost lounging as she absently fiddled with the controls on the console next to her, her expression open and lively.

"One of these days, you're going to admit that I'm right," Han said, his abundant confidence going full throttle. Tamara's nose was wrinkled in annoyance.

"Switch off, Solo," she snapped back right before she saw Luke.

All Luke's doubts fled at the way her blue-grey eyes brightened. Without being able to help himself Luke beamed back.

He'd be willing to bet that never happened to Han.

Maybe there was a chance…


	19. Garden Confessional

"You met me as Dema," she said softly, the faintest of wavers colouring her voice, telling him that she was nervous, "I have been known by many names, some of which you may have heard before. For a time I was Queen Amidala of Naboo, then I was Senator Padmé Amidala of the Galactic Republic. Then I was dead to the Galaxy, known only as Dema. But my true name, the name I have longed to bear but never had a chance to own, is Padmé Naberrie Skywalker."

It was odd. Anakin no longer had a body, nor breath nor physical sensations at all anymore—especially when he wasn't taking on the appearance of corporeal form—but hearing her say that, he felt like his chest was puffing out with pride and happiness, emotion welling in his throat. Always, in the back corner of his mind all those years ago, part of him had longed for his marriage to Padmé—for his feelings, really, since to him, their marriage was a proclamation of those feelings—to no longer need to be a secret. And here she was introducing herself as his wife, acknowledging without hesitation or reservation that they were married simply by joining her name with his. She had never officially done so, not legally, anyway, but that didn't make her use of his last name any less meaningful to him.

Luke's eyes had gone wide with shock, and Athara's jaw had dropped open.

"Who?" his apprentice blurted out, too shocked to soften her disbelief. Padmé smiled gently, sadly, the expression bringing on a wave of his own grief.

"Anakin and I were married," his wife clarified, her beautiful eyes turning to their son. "I'm your mother, Luke," she added softly, her voice as laden with emotion as her gaze. Suddenly Athara was shaking her head.

"That's impossible," the younger woman practically whispered, "he killed you—her—his wife. He's lived with that guilt for years; I felt it, his pain, his self-loathing! You can't be." The grief intensified at his apprentice's reminder. She was right. He'd hated himself from the instant he'd woken in that Medical Chamber to hear that his Angel was dead—allegedly at his own hand, he remembered with agony—until he'd regained his sense of self as he'd joined with the Living Force. As awareness had returned to him, he'd somehow  _known_ ; Padmé lived.

And he'd gone to her.

He'd only left her side when he'd sensed his children were together—and yes, he'd counted his apprentice alongside his biological children—needing to see them, to make sure they were whole and healthy and  _happy_. There were few moments in his life when he could claim to have been as happy as he'd been in that moment, seeing the three of them together, his son twining his fingers with his apprentice's even as his daughter wrapped her arms joyfully around her twin. They were alive, they were safe and they had a  _future_.

It was all he could've wished for.

Though he did admittedly have a few concerns about the smuggler his daughter was madly in love with…

Alongside his fellow Force-spirits, he'd watched his children as the celebrations continued into the night, a mixture of contentment, joy and remorse filling him. They'd conversed for a long time that evening—Anakin, Obi-wan, Qui-gon and Yoda—grieving and marveling at the mysteries of the Force and everything that had led to that bittersweet moment.

Then he'd returned to his Angel.

And now his son and his apprentice were  _here_ , with her. And they had learned the truth. They knew his Angel, the mother of his children, was alive. And Padmé had her children back, a chance to know them after so many years.

His family was whole again.

Or, at least, it would be.

First Athara had to pause in her denial and disbelief long enough for her feelings to tell her Padmé told the truth…

Even as Athara's questions began to border on interrogation—something that Padmé bore with every bit of grace Anakin remembered her possessing—Luke had already felt the truth of the connection between him and Padmé, his feelings telling him it was true, his eyes widening with wonder as he stared at the woman he  _knew_  was his mother, desperate to fix her in his memory as though he feared she were about to disappear. But Athara had no such bond with Padmé to prompt her and was suddenly too wound up with shock and doubt—and a surge of protectiveness Anakin realized with an odd sense of pride—to allow her feelings the freedom to discern the truth.

Had he been capable, a fondly exasperated groan would have escaped the former Sith Lord at his apprentice's overpowering disbelief. He really shouldn't have been surprised. Unable to help the affection flooding through him, Anakin reached out for Athara, his consciousness brushing up against hers in reassurance, urging her without words to search her feelings.

She was so startled, she fell silent mid-sentence, her eyes widening slightly with surprise as she sensed his presence and his confirmation. It was enough to draw Luke's attention away from his mother to look to Athara with concern. Her blue-grey eyes suddenly bright, she met the young Jedi's gaze even as her hands began to tremble. Luke didn't hesitate to take her fingers in his own, instinctively understanding the faint distance in her eyes.

That moment of hesitation was all she'd needed.

If Anakin had been corporeal, he would've been beaming.

"It's true," Athara whispered, her own voice wavering as her gaze focused again on Padmé. Padmé smiled softly, her own gaze tender in a way Anakin could have only dreamed; she liked his apprentice already. Incredulous, Athara's fingers tightened on Luke's as she stared at Padmé, a million questions surging to life behind her eyes.

"How—what happened to you? He believed you were dead all these years…that he'd killed you…" The sadness in Padmé's eyes deepened as Athara's incredulous voice trailed off. She reached out for the young couple, her hand trembling slightly as she hesitated for a moment just as she laid it on her son's arm. Contentment and, oddly enough, a sense of rightness settled over Anakin as a feeling of relief and completion similarly settled over his wife at the contact with their son. Even as her own warm eyes grew bright, Padmé gestured for the pair to follow her into her home.

"I'll tell you," she said gently, her tone promising answers.

She spent the rest of the day providing those answers, relating to Luke and Athara what had happened to her; the events directly leading up to Luke and Leia's birth; how her mind had shattered, fragmenting her memory and her sense of self; the years she'd spent piecing herself back together. With Anakin staying resolutely by her side, reaching out to comfort her as best he could, grieving with her, she told them everything.

Finally, the night deepened enough that it began to ease again into day and Padmé assured her son and her husband's apprentice that she would continue her tale in the morning. Reluctantly the two emotionally exhausted Force-users agreed, thankfully retiring to the room Padmé showed them.

Not long after that Padmé herself retired. Anakin stayed with her until she drifted off, curling his consciousness around her as best he could, imagining for a few moments that he was actually holding her in his arms again. He was sure she knew he was there, the faint smile that slept on his Angel's lips all the proof he needed, as was her murmured words of love as dreams took her.

It was only then that he left her side.

As much as he would've loved to stay with her until she woke again, she was no longer the only one he wished to see. No, now there were two others in his Angel's house who Anakin loved more than he could've ever imagined.

His son and the apprentice he loved as a daughter.

He allowed a visible manifestation of himself to materialize in the garden below where he could sense both his son and his apprentice were sound asleep. He was reluctant to wake Athara, especially given all she had been put through recently, but he needed to talk to her.

But it was as though she had been waiting for him, because almost as soon as he allowed his presence to coalesce, he could feel her waking.

It wasn't long before she was slipping out of the guesthouse into his Angel's garden, the luscious greenery rustling softly in the gentle, moonlit breeze. Above them the moons were beginning to set, the first low enough that it grazed the treetops in the distance.

As she stepped into the garden, Athara's gaze was immediately drawn to the setting moons, her features soft and thoughtful as she took in the quiet beauty of the early-morning hour. After a few moments pacing among the sleeping plants, she settled on a shallow stone bench, pulling the long sleeves of her shirt down over her hands even as her arms clung close to her body. She nearly looked chilled, but it was a warm night, as far as Anakin could judge, so he was fairly certain there was more to it than an unconscious gesture to stay warm. More than that, he hadn't woken her. Her thoughts had done that. He could see it in her face, unguarded as it was in her perceived solitude. He wasn't even certain if she'd sensed his presence at all.

He moved forward, about to make his presence known, only to pause as uncertainty overcame him.

What would he even say? There was so much he needed to tell her, so much he wished to talk about. As he watched her sitting in silence among his wife's meticulously cared-for florae, he found that, despite knowing everything he needed to say to her, he had no idea where to begin.

But before he could gather his thoughts, she was turning to him, her blue-grey eyes settling on him without even a trace of surprise. The corner of his mouth quirked in a fond grin as his hesitation faded. He should never have doubted she'd known he was there; he'd taught her too well in that regard. A few steps later and he was settling on the bench in the space he realized she'd consciously left for him.

"I was afraid my presence had woken you," he finally admitted, his voice low. It still sounded loud to him given the stillness of the garden, "but I can sense your distraction, my apprentice." A wan, tired smile spread across her face as she nodded, looking up to him. Her eyes travelled slowly across his features, the thoughtful cast returning.

"I have a lot on my mind," she finally answered softly before segueing, "it feels…odd, being here. But it still, somehow, feels right." Absently he nodded, but he didn't respond. He could sense he didn't need to, that she could sense he understood.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence again, Athara watching the moons creep closer to the horizon—the first had begun sinking below the trees—and Anakin watching his apprentice. He couldn't help the pride that rose in him as he studied her. She'd grown into such a strong, powerful, capable woman…and she'd grown into a good person despite the best efforts of his former self. There was still traces of Darkness in her, of course—he knew with a pang that she'd be fighting that result of his influence for the rest of her life—but the Light far outshone it now. And that brought him a measure of joy that almost felt too large a feeling for him to possess.

Oblivious to, or perhaps politely ignoring, the tenor of his musings, she plucked at the sleeve hem of the shirt she wore as she sank back into thought, drawing Anakin's attention to it. He couldn't help the grin that came to his lips as he recognized the dark garment from earlier that day. Her blue-grey eyes snapped to him when she sensed the trace of amusement from his realization, narrowing slightly as she fixed him with a firm look as she caught him glancing at the borrowed shirt.

"Not a word," she muttered, "I'm not discussing  _that_  with you,  _Master_." He chuckled at her emphasis on the 'Master' part. Had she been anyone but her own well-disciplined self, he could imagine she'd have been squirming with embarrassment by now. As it was, her cheeks were decidedly pinker than a moment before, but there was a faint but happy twinkle in her eyes. No, he couldn't fault her for the happiness she'd found with his son. Had it been anyone else, he might have taken issue—who could be good enough for his apprentice, after all—but the fact that the man she loved was his son aside, Anakin could think of no one better for his little girl than Luke. The young Jedi had more than proven the strength of his character and depth of his feelings for the former Sith apprentice. More than that, Anakin could not only see but feel how well they suited each other.

No, he admitted happily to himself, they were meant for each other.

"Why?" Her soft voice startled him from his thoughts. Frowning at the question, Anakin met his apprentice's steady gaze, not entirely sure what she was questioning. She couldn't have sensed what he'd just been thinking about. She confirmed as much as she clarified, shifting where she sat so that she faced him.

"On Hoth? You—you stopped," she said delicately. Her voice was steady, but there was uncertainty lingering like a shadow behind her eyes. "I know Qui-gon reached out to you, but—it was more than that," she continued softly, watching him carefully. There wasn't a hint of accusation in her eyes, leaving Anakin momentarily breathless with a profound sense of guilt-tinted relief. "If the Vader side of you hadn't wanted to stop, even the part of you that was still Anakin, the part that cared for me, wouldn't have been able to stop him. So why?" Anakin inhaled deeply, more out of a lingering instinct from life than out of any actual need. It was not a question he'd been expecting just yet, and one he wasn't entirely sure how to answer. He wasn't even sure he  _could_  answer.

"You—" he hesitated, looking for an adequate way to describe something he didn't quite know how to describe, "you were always able to calm Vader, little one. Or rather, you calmed him to the point where I could almost coexist with him. I don't know how, and I don't know if we'll ever know, but you could. I think at the heart of it, though, was that the Vader side of me adored you too. He adored your drive and your strength, your stubbornness and your temper. The Vader part of me cared for you, as much as he was able. For all that the Dark Side thrives on passion and deep-seated feeling, things like affection and love are easily overshadowed and lost.

"But somehow, you managed to inspire such feelings in Vader. Neither of us expected to care for someone again in any capacity after…and I think he was protective of you as a result. Especially after…after all we had lost. We feared losing you more than he feared and hated what he saw as your betrayal.

"Enough so that he couldn't go through with it any more than I could've." A soft, shuddering breath escaped her as he spoke. As he fell silent, she stood, beginning to pace even as her eyes began to grow bright in the waning moonlight. The emotions he could sense in her were so conflicted, so sad, that Anakin longed to gather her in his arms, to comfort his little girl as he wished he had done more often when she was young.

Athara stood in silence for a long moment, trying to process what he'd said and the emotions the confession had stirred, though her neutral features didn't betray it. But Anakin knew. Not only could he sense as much, but he knew her too well to miss the focus in her unfocused eyes.

"Despite everything," she eventually murmured, speaking so softly he almost didn't hear her, "I cared for him too. I cared for both sides of you, even after I realized you were effectively separate from him," she admitted, a thread of guilt in her voice. "But yet—" she paused, gaze slipping away from him as though she couldn't quite bring herself to meet his gaze, "—no matter how much I cared…I would have grown to hate you, wouldn't I." It wasn't quite a question. Had he been alive, a heavy breath would have sighed past Anakin's lips. As it was, a sighing sound did escape him and his shoulders shifted in a corresponding movement.

"Yes. Your anger, the negative feelings the Dark Side was trying to foster in you? It would have turned you against me, turning your affection and admiration, your confidence in me into resentment and hatred. Your trust would have shattered. Under the shadow, the taint of the Dark Side's influence, you would've come to believe I was holding you back out of jealousy or mistrust or doubt. You might even have come to believe I feared you, your power, your potential, and was contemplating betraying you or even destroying you myself. Your feelings would have shifted whether you wished them to or not, until one day you would've killed me out of that resentment, distrust—perhaps even ambition—but most of all out of fear.

"It is the Legacy of the Sith."

She looked over to him, her bright eyes clouded with grief, her shoulders tensed as though his words had been a great weight settling over them. Once, twice, she opened her mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out. He ached for the turmoil of thoughts and emotions he could sense in her, wishing for nothing more in that moment than to be able to take it from her, to free her from it.

But he knew it wasn't possible. It wasn't something he could fix with a wish.

Standing, he ghosted to her side, reaching out even though he knew he couldn't physically touch her, brushing against her consciousness as he did so with every bit of understanding, comfort and remorse he felt in that moment. But as his spectral hand brushed against her shoulder, she began to tremble, the tension in her bleeding from her body. A single tear managed to escape onto her cheek before she swiped it quickly away.

But, as inadequate as the attempt had felt, it hadn't been insignificant.

And her mind calmed in the face of his reassurance.

When she started speaking again it was halting, hesitant in a way he wasn't quite sure he'd ever seen. He'd taught her early on that, even when uncertain, it was better to project an air of confidence. It was a lesson she'd picked up easily.

"There's something that—that's bothered me for a long time—well, yeah…for a long time," she finally admitted softly, shifting as though about to turn to look at him, only to reconsider right before her eyes reached his face, her gaze falling to focus on her anxiously wringing hands instead. "How—how were you even alive? I mean, I know how bad it was, the state of your body," her cheeks flushed dully in the low light, guilt and remorse colouring her aura through the Force as she spoke before hesitation overcame her again. "I know how much had been replaced, how much needed to be repaired…how much was too damaged to do either…"

Anakin had to hold back the resigned yet understanding expression that nearly overcame him. It didn't take much to realize why she felt as she did when recalling this subject; he'd known then—years ago, now—that she'd gotten a glimpse of his ruined body despite his expressed desire that she never see him like that. At the time he'd been torn between betrayed rage and despondency. Now, he only regretted that she'd had to carry that with her ever since.

She finally glanced up to look out over the moonlit garden of the guesthouse, her hands parting to instead cross over her torso; again she looked almost cold the way she hugged herself, despite the pleasant temperature of the night air. Her blue-grey eyes were vulnerable and glistening faintly as she forced herself to continue. Anakin's heart clenched.

"I know what—what happened on Mustafar…to some extent, at least. I mean, I'm pretty sure I do," she sighed heavily, her eyes suddenly flashing in a way that told him she was internally berating herself for rambling. He couldn't help but smile indulgently.

How he loved this child…

…Only she wasn't a child anymore…

Finally she steeled her nerve and looked at him head on, her gaze searching but determined as it met his.

"How did you survive?" As the weight of the question settled on him, Anakin's fond, encouraging expression faltered.

He'd wondered himself almost from the day he'd realized—really, truly realized—he shouldn't have been alive. He'd wondered until the day he'd died, though he'd long given up on ever knowing. He'd known it was all thanks to Palpatine, but the  _how_  had been elusive.

But then he had joined the living Force and he'd reunited with his Masters…and he'd found  _her_  again, his Angel. Without even thinking to do it, he glanced up to the house where he knew his wife slept.

"Because of her," he said softly, his voice full of regret. "It's because of me she nearly died. It's because of me her mind was shattered." He glanced back to his apprentice. She was staring at him, brow furrowed with confusion even as her eyes widened with growing horror. Long moments passed as her mind churned around his words, struggling to decipher his meaning. More than once he nearly opened his mouth to explain, but the words caught in his throat like they were barbed. Guilt and pain wracked him at the thought of what he'd realized had been done to keep his broken husk of a body alive. But he could feel the conclusion growing in his apprentice's mind. She didn't want to understand what he meant, but he could sense she was beginning to.

"What are you saying? Palpatine—your wife—he, he…" Slowly, painfully, Anakin nodded. Athara's mouth parted in horror, her hand rising to clutch at her throat as she swallowed her revulsion convulsively.

"He used her to keep you alive?" She all but choked out the question. Again he nodded, but this time as he tried to respond, his voice finally obeyed, albeit hoarse and hollowed by pain.

"By all rights, she should have died; he intended her to, draining her life force and channeling it into… But her strength—" despite himself, despite the horrific deed his former Sith Master had performed, Anakin couldn't help but smile faintly, "she's always been a strong woman. The strongest I've ever known. She managed to hold on, I suspect for them." He glanced up to where he knew his son slept, his thoughts turning briefly to his equally strong-willed daughter. Understanding flickered in Athara's eyes as her gaze followed his to where her Jedi waited. Anakin's smile faded, though, as the gravity of what he'd been explaining once again descended as she looked back to him. "But what Palpatine was doing? Even Padmé …" just short of finally saying it aloud, his voice failed him again.

"That's why her mind shattered. It couldn't handle the strain of fighting what he was doing to her." Athara finished softly. Anakin didn't need to nod, his head dropping to his hands as his spectral manifestation sank back down onto the stone bench. With a frown she lowered herself down next to him. He lifted his head at the movement, looking to where she sat, gaze distant even as a question grew shadowed in her eyes. "But then why did it finally come back…why does she remember aga—" Anakin straightened as she froze, wary consideration overtaking uneasy uncertainty. "When did her memory return?" It was Anakin's turn to frown at her whispered question, only for understanding to sink in a moment later. With an anguished groan Anakin leaned forward again, his head falling to his hands as remorse and self-reproach threatened to overwhelm him. For a split-second he was grateful that, as a Force-spirit, he didn't need to breathe; he knew without a doubt that he wouldn't have been able to for the sudden weight of his guilt.

"When I died." Athara sighed at the answer she felt more than heard. He could sense what she was thinking; Anakin had come to the same conclusion.

The Dark Side had been feeding off her to keep him alive for all these years.

His Angel had been lost to herself for over twenty years…because of  _him_.

It was the only explanation and it was crushing. Utterly devastating. A sound reminiscent of a choked sob caught in his chest. But he couldn't cry, not anymore.

"It's not your fault, Anakin."

Reassurance and comfort poured over him as her consciousness brushed against his. Looking up to her, he marveled at the tentative smile playing across her lips even as the moonlight glistened off the tear-tracks tracing down her cheeks. He sighed heavily, scrubbing a spectral hand over his equally ghostly face.

"Yes it is, Athara," he said, his voice laden with responsibility and resignation. But a flutter of movement beside him had his gaze focusing on his apprentice's gently shaking head.

"Had you known…had Vader known? What would yo—"

"I would have let myself die." It was out of his mouth before she'd even finished asking, the response and the conviction fervent, instinctual and resolute. A soft, satisfied smile played over Athara's lips as the declaration burst out of his mouth. He nearly groaned in resignation, realizing what she'd done. Another sighing sound escaped him before he continued, his voice much more subdued. "Whether it was me—or Vader. Even as him, I'd have rather died. Our Angel deserved so much better." Athara reached out impulsively, only to hesitate as she remembered that, though she could see him, there wasn't actually a shoulder for her to lay her hand on in sympathy. A surge of warmth went through Anakin at the gesture, though. She'd always been able to do that. Reaching out himself, his hand ghosted over hers, coming as close to grasping it in gratitude as possible given his non-corporeal state. Though sorrow of her own still lingered on her features, Athara's tentative smile settled into one of relief.

"You're a good man, Master," she said softly looking at him with an earnest expression that made his heart ache with love and pride for his apprentice—his daughter in all but name. He couldn't even bring himself to contradict her, blown away as he was by her surge of confidence. How he'd ever managed to raise such a noble, kind-hearted young woman when he'd been as lost to the Dark Side as he was would forever be a mystery to him. Seeming to sense his musing, she absently shook her head in fond exasperation. "You are. No matter that you were a slave to the Dark Side for longer than I've been alive, the good in you survived. And you came back from the Dark Side to bring the Force back into balance. That's no small feat.

"That is your legacy."


	20. Consoling Ben

She couldn't fight the feeling that something was wrong. Wrong enough that Beru had contemplated leaving Luke at home while she went out on her errand. But there was no one to leave him with. Owen was busy out by the south ridge—fixing the condensers out there again, by the sound of it—Neva was off planet and, by the time she dropped her nephew off with any of the neighbours able to watch him, her day would be gone.

Anyway, if Neva had been available, Beru would have had little reason to worry. She should have been long back by now. Beru had been expecting her to show up for days with her new baby girl in tow, ready to show her off and introduce her to little Luke. If she hadn't been growing so worried, Beru would have smiled at the thought.

Beru had seen the holo Neva had sent to her to pass on to Ben. Their new baby was absolutely beautiful; tiny and precious. Beru had barely managed to take the time to come up with an excuse to go out, she'd been so eager to deliver the news to the new father.

In fact, her trip to deliver that very holo had been the last time she'd been over this way. That time she'd been so excited.

This time she very much was not.

She glanced down at the seat next to her in the speeder. Luke was playing with his toys on the floor of the passenger's side seat. Beru couldn't help the flicker of happiness that cut through her worry at the sight of the sweet-natured little boy. Though just over a standard year old, Luke was already adventurous and impossibly cheerful. Unable to hold back a small chuckle as the little boy threw the toy speeder he'd been playing with, giving it a perplexed look when it didn't return before smiling and grabbing another toy, Beru turned her attention back to her route.

The cheer her nephew had inspired didn't last for long, though. As soon as Neva and Ben's little house came into view, the anxious feeling returned. Especially when Beru caught sight of the hunched figure sitting outside. It took her a long moment to recognize the man as Ben.

As she cycled the speeder's engine off, she hesitated before getting out. She knew from the way he hadn't even looked up that something terrible had happened.

Beru had to steel herself against running through successively worse scenarios that could explain the heartache that she could practically see hanging over him like a shadow. But staying in the speeder wouldn't get her answers, nor would it make the bad news any less bad. Gathering up Luke, Beru made her way toward the crushed-looking man. Beru's fear warred with her need to know and her need to know kept her walking forward.

"Ben?" she said softly as she came to a stop in front of him. He didn't even look up, though he did raise a hand to scrub across his face, brushing off some of the sand clinging to his cheeks as though just waking up from a stupor. Beru noticed with a start that the dust had been clinging to dried tear-tracks. Her heart sunk, quivering and shrinking in her chest as the gravity of his expression said more than the words he hadn't said yet. Shifting Luke in her arms, Beru crouched down next to where Ben sat slumped against the wall of his and Neva's home. She swallowed thickly before speaking again, trying to sound as gentle and soothing as she could.

"What's happened?" It was a long, heavy minute before he answered, his voice hoarse and painfully hollow.

"They're gone." Beru couldn't help the sharp intake of breath that hissed past her lips. Ben's cracked lips had half-heartedly continued moving, though after those two horrible words, no more sound escaped.

But Beru didn't need more words. She could read everything else she'd needed to know on his face.

Her arms inadvertently tightened around her nephew's squirming form. The little boy had pressed himself into Beru's side and was eyeing Ben warily, his expression confused at the man's odd behavior before his attention was drawn elsewhere, his usual cheerful energy resurfacing. Luke simply wasn't old enough to recognize the kind of grief written across this man's whole body. It was beyond anything Beru had seen yet, and she'd seen Cliegg's grief at losing Shmi, her own mother's grief at losing her father and more; Tatooine was a hard planet. Its citizens were no strangers to loss. With a pained sigh, Ben's eyes slid shut and for a moment Beru nearly thought he'd passed out.

It looked like he hadn't been inside in days. His clothes were dusted with sand, as was his sunburnt face. His beard, usually so neatly trimmed, was beginning to look ragged and the skin around his eyes was tired, puffy and bruised looking. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

Ben looked awful and it made Beru's heart hurt all that much more. But she was a practical woman, Tatooine born and bred; tears were water. So she swiped away the few that managed to escape and forcibly swallowed the rest. Then, clearing her throat, she stood and all but dumped Luke in Ben's arms. The toddler squirmed and looked up at her in bewilderment. The action startled Ben too, which was as she hoped. He looked up at Beru with an almost identical expression of confusion, though his was shadowed by exhaustion and grief. Beru nodded once, assuring herself at the success of her action and turned to enter the little house, her sense of practicality pushing her own grief aside.

"I'll get us something to drink. And you need to eat something," she said firmly over her shoulder. She spared a glance at the pair, pausing as Luke continued to squirm in Ben's loose arms, his little gaze wandering hither and yon and his small hands grasping and reaching for something to explore and investigate. A half-comprehensible, babbling demand escaped as the boy caught sight of something he wanted a closer look at. Suddenly eager to be free of the lap and restraining arms that held him, his wiggling intensified as, in his pidgin baby-talk, he began demanding more insistently that Ben release him to his investigation.

But then the toddler looked up to the heartbroken man holding him and stilled.

And Beru had to restrain herself from bursting into tears at the little boy's reaction.

His prospective adventuring forgotten, Luke's vibrant blue eyes fixed on Ben's haggard face before the toddler nestled himself against the grieving man's chest, his little thumb sneaking toward his mouth as he let loose a comforting stream of unintelligible baby noises. Ben froze—not that he hadn't been still before—his sightless eyes finally focusing on the sandy-haired boy in his arms. Then after inhaling a deep, shaking breath, Beru watched as his arms tightened and his bearded cheek lowered to rest against Luke's silky-soft hair. Beru couldn't help but smile, a small, hopeful feeling warming in her chest at the sight. It didn't chase away the grief, but it cheered her considerably.

He'd be all right, she assured herself.

Then she turned and ducked into the house to make them all some lunch.v


	21. Return to Mustafar

**Part I**

Athara forced a deep breath into her lungs before reaching to the control that would drop the _Falcon_ out of hyperspace. It was certainly an odd feeling co-piloting the old freighter, especially with Han sitting in the pilot’s chair, eying her like he was afraid she was about to break something. But regardless of the unassailable faith she had in Han and Chewie’s piloting abilities, she was the one who had the first-hand experience with the planet-side approach they were about to undertake.

Hence the deep breath.

It had been years since she last set foot on the planet that hid one of the few places she’d ever even remotely considered ‘home.’

Mustafar.

Hence her place in Chewie’s regular seat.

She’d even been tempted to suggest that Luke pilot with her, knowing his own piloting talent and his Force-sensitivity would give him an advantage just as it did her. But asking Han and Chewie to give up full control of their baby even if it was to her and Luke? The smuggler and his co-pilot were still sore from the damage left on the _Falcon_ from lending it to Lando for the attack on the Second Death Star.

It had been hard enough to get Han to agree to leave her to navigate the treacherous atmosphere they were heading for. She’d had to play the experience card pretty hard for that. And that was with added help of Han’s prior knowledge of rumours about how unpredictable and violent Mustafar’s atmosphere was…Athara might have played those rumours up a bit when he mentioned he’d heard them to get him to agree.

As the whorl of hyperspace stilled to starlines and then back to realspace, Athara was steeling herself for what she knew lay before her on the lava planet. It hung like a glowing ember before them, exactly as she remembered it.  

“That’s Mustafar?” Luke’s voice was soft and uneasy, interrupting Han’s quick breakdown from the sensor readings. Tersely Athara nodded.

She’d explained to all of them what Mustafar was and why she needed to go there, insisting that her Jedi and her two friends knew exactly what they were getting into when they volunteered to go with her. Truthfully, she’d been trying to discourage them, ready to go on her own…especially since it was a visit unsanctioned by the Alliance leadership… She had no idea what was waiting at Vader’s Fortress and was wary of dragging those she cared about in blind.

Just like she wasn’t interested in letting the Alliance try to storm the Fortress either. She knew it’d be a futile mission. There was a reason it was known as Vader’s ‘Fortress.’ But even after she’d warned the Alliance leadership of as much when she’d caught wind of the plans to secure her Master’s private sanctuary, they’d effectively brushed her off. She’d considered persisting, insisting that they needed to reconsider their plans or at least bring her in on the mission, but she was still looked on with suspicion by many within the Alliance. It didn’t matter that her allegiance had been made perfectly clear. She still wasn’t trusted.

Well, if they didn’t trust her, that was their loss. But Athara wasn’t about to let them run off on a suicide mission to take a facility that honestly didn’t have any real strategic value—they hadn’t listened to her on that score, either… It was then that she’d made the decision to scout ahead on her own.

It was certainly a reckless decision, and probably rather foolish. It wasn’t going to improve her standing with Alliance leadership, that was for sure.

But if anyone was going to be able to get into the Fortress, it was going to be her.

If she could manage it, she was fully intending to open the door.

Her only reservations came from Luke, Han and Chewie insisting on joining her. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to get into the Fortress in the first place. For all that the Fortress was Vader’s, it had been designed on the Emperor’s orders. She wasn’t keen on risking their lives on the chance that Vader might not have completely removed her clearance codes and permissions.

Well, that and knowing that there’d be no hiding the true purpose of the Fortress if they somehow managed to infiltrate it.

The fact that Vader’s Fortress was, in truth, little more than an elaborate Medical Facility? It would be a bombshell, especially to her friends. Especially to Luke. It nearly set her shaking with unease at the very thought of revealing one of her Master’s closest held secrets.

Especially considering his reluctance to even tell her all those years before.

The cockpit was silent and tense as Athara eased the _Falcon_ into the volatile atmosphere, every scrap of attention on the view outside the cockpit as the planet loomed closer. Thick, toxic clouds obscured the view and electromagnetic interference threatened to short out the _Falcon_ ’s carefully, if haphazardly, calibrated systems.

It took every scrap of control Athara had to keep herself focused. Relying wholly on the Light Side of the Force was still periodically a challenge for her, and she had never made this flight without the aide of the Dark Side, her anxiety and latent fear easy fuel to boost her senses. She nearly lost it at one crucial point, almost dangerously overcorrecting when a surging updraft buffeted with scorching force against the _Falcon_. Panic threatened to set in even as she managed to keep the _Falcon_ firmly under control. It was only when Luke’s consciousness brushed against her own, his reassuring calm soothing on her tattered nerves, that she was able to wrestle herself back under control.

It was a harrowing flight. Athara didn’t allow herself to relax for an instant, not even when, following her instructions perfectly, Luke transmitted the clearance codes to the Fortress’ security systems and received back a confirmation. It was…well, it was something. Athara wasn’t quite sure if it was a positive sign or not.

Either way, the concealed turbolaser embankments didn’t shoot them down and none of the dozen TIE fighters Athara knew were stationed not far from the Fortress were sent out after them.

She didn’t say a word beyond the occasional murmur for Han to monitor a system or engage a sublight drive sub-system from the instant the _Falcon_ breached the atmosphere, reserving all of her attention for navigating the deadly hazards that hid in Mustafar’s volcanic sky. Even when Han and Chewie reacted with uneasy murmurs as the lava-riddled surface and razor-sharp black mountains emerged through the dark, ash-choked haze she said nothing.

Not even when the towering edifice of Vader’s Fortress appeared through the gloom, standing guard on the edge of the cliff-face atop its beacon-like lava-fall. She didn’t react to the soft exclamations at the ominous sight, barely taking in the structure beyond marking its position in relation to her destination.

She only began to relax when the Fortress’ planet-side navigation assistance systems locked on to the _Falcon_ , guiding them in. Much to Han’s bewildered surprise, it was only then that the tension in her shoulders eased and her posture relaxed enough that she settled into the co-pilot’s seat.

“This is normal?” Feeling the strain from her mental exertions, Athara nodded tiredly. The words were tumbling out of her mouth before she even realized she was saying them.

“The landing guidance systems function completely separate from the security protocols,” she explained absently, not even noticing as Han’s expression turned from uneasy to skeptical to intrigued. “It makes approaching the Fortress much easier and much safer. The primary landing pad is quite close to the river that flows beneath the Fortress and the interference it creates can sometimes short out a ship’s landing assistance systems. Not to mention what the crosswinds or the updrafts that come up the cliff-face are capable of. It’s virtually impossible to land without at least the assistance of the high-intensity guide beams. Bypassing it is not only inadvisable, but incredibly difficult, if not impossible. Even if the approaching ship was an enemy vessel, the system would still guide it in rather than risk it colliding with the Fortress should it lose control.” With an absent gesture she was initiating the landing cycle. Han’s nose wrinkled with a faint moue of indignation that she’d effectively usurped command, but his experience took over, insisting that he focus on bringing his ship down safely rather than asserting his natural claim.

As the _Falcon_ slowed to begin its final descent onto the landing pad, Athara was tensing up again as her concentration intensified. “Careful on the port struts, Han. It’s going to be a tight fit,” she cautioned absently. Han’s only response was a distracted grunt of acknowledgement, though he immediately made an adjustment to compensate thanks to her warning.

A relieved exhale burst out of Athara as the _Falcon_ settled on the pad with a put-upon groan. Outside, the energy field that protected the platform from the intense heat and noxious vapours that layered the planet’s surface above the lava floes flickered back to life. Behind her, Chewie let out a faint whuffing chuckle, laying an encouraging hand on her shoulder as he stood. Smiling in thanks, she let the Wookiee help pull her from the co-pilot’s seat so he could settle back in himself; prepared in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

Han had already slipped from the cockpit out into the main crew area while Luke was waiting just past the cockpit bulkhead for her. Sensing her disquiet at what lay just beyond the boarding ramp, he slipped an arm around her, pulling her in close as he laid a light kiss against her temple. Mercifully, he didn’t say a word as she embraced him back briefly before following Han, and for that Athara was grateful.

The smuggler was leaning against the Dejarik table, ready and waiting as the two Jedi caught up. Around him, his handful of commandos were shuffling impatiently, ready to get on with the volunteer-only mission.

“So what’s the plan?” Athara shot the smuggler an assessing glance as she swept up her cloak from where she’d draped it over the engineering console seat. She had to force herself to ignore the Dark flutter in the back of her mind as she swung the cloak around her shoulders, very nearly drawing the wide cowl over her face as she'd used to.

“I go see if any of my security codes are still active. If they aren’t, I see if I can bypass the security protocols. If I can’t,” she nodded toward the squat green droid who had trundled up beside Luke, “N3 will give it a try.” Han frowned, his arms crossing in a way that clearly demonstrated he was unimpressed.

“That doesn’t seem like much of a plan. What do we do when we get inside? What if we run across some less-than-friendly Imperials once we get in there?” Athara shot him a skeptical, questioning look of her own.

“Coming from the man who quite often shoots first, asks questions later?” At his scowl she grinned before shrugging. A couple of the commandos snickered. “I don’t know. I very much doubt that, between the three of us—two of us with lightsabers and one the former apprentice of the Master of the Fortress—and your men, we’ll have any real trouble with whoever happens to be left. It’s never been a heavily garrisoned facility. For all that it’s an actual Fortress, it’s not a base,” she grumbled bitterly, reminded of why she was here in the first place. After a moment she continued, tone once again matter-of-fact as she ran down the bare bones of the plan as she saw it. Not that there was much to the plan beyond the bones, anyway…

“Once we’re inside, we head to the Command Centre, reset the security protocols and send the Alliance an invite. Show them exactly why all the time and effort they’ve been putting into planning the assault on this place was completely unnecessary.” Han and Luke both eyed her scowl warily. Athara sighed, rubbing her temple as she tried to let go of her lingering frustration and unease about their unauthorized mission. For a moment she fought the impulse, but she finally elaborated with a groan of uncertainty.

“The Alliance is convinced there is some sort of strategic value to this place,” she ground out in a rush, her voice barely more than a murmur. “There isn’t. Not really. The _Devastator_ —and later the _Executor_ —were Vader’s ‘bases’. Not here. For all that it was a supposed ‘sanctuary,’ he hated it here.” A few murmurs were exchanged among Han’s commandos before the smuggler had them quieting again with a look. She hesitated, the truth of the Fortress’ purpose teetering on the tip of her tongue. But she couldn’t manage to say it. There were too many years of unwaveringly protecting her Master’s secrets holding her back. Instead she turned on her heel, stalking from the crew cabin to the boarding ramp.

By the time Luke and Han caught up to her, she was reaching for the entrance’s control panel, ready to attempt entering her security codes. But as her companions reached her side, she hesitated. It was only when N3 warbled with concern behind the three of them that a breathless, cynical laugh huffed past her lips.

“You know,” she said absently, as though only to herself, “The last time I passed through these doors—the last time I was here—I had just brought Director Krennic before my Master. Not long after that I left for Jedha…to report back to Vader whether or not Krennic was exaggerating about the Death Star’s capabilities…that was so long ago, now…” She trailed off, unable to help how sad she sounded. It had been a long time ago. N3 responded with a sad moan even as Luke laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Thankfully, the touch snapped her from her melancholic thoughts and, taking a deep breath to shed the feeling, she began punching in the first of the codes she had decided would be most likely to work.

There was no hiding her shock when the locking mechanisms disengaged and the doors opened with a tired hiss at the first one. Next to her, Han’s eyebrows shot to his hairline while Luke glanced to Athara with an uneasy frown.

That should not have happened.

What made it even more unsettling was the complete lack of reaction on the part of the Force. No foreboding that something was wrong. No sense of all’s well. It was surprisingly silent.

Ahead of them the dim lighting of the corridor was flickering to life, barely illuminating the stark hallway. But that was as it should be.

Save it was empty.

There should have been someone be it in welcome or defence. There was always a custodian or officer left in charge of the facility when her Master was absent—commonly it had been left in Commander Corli’s capable hands when Athara had still been Vader’s Shadow—along with one of her Master’s top Stormtroopers squads.

This was very unusual.

Exchanging cautioning glances with the smuggler and the Jedi, Athara’s lightsaber found its way into her hand just as Luke’s did. On her other side, Han’s blaster similarly found its way into his ready grip. Behind them the commandos shifted, the muted sounds of them readying blasters and switching into mission-mode seeming painfully loud in the empty corridor.

It wasn’t until they approached the Command Centre that they finally encountered the Fortress’ occupants.

“Commander Ifan,” Athara greeted warily, eying the familiar officer as he came to a halt before her and her companions. Behind him a handful of Stormtroopers came to a halt themselves, not a single one holding their blaster at the ready. With a smart, succinct gesture, Ifan nodded his acknowledgement.

“My Lady,” the older man greeted. There was a faint trace of a smile around his eyes. Though not as old as Corli—probably why Ifan was seemingly in charge now—the silver-haired officer had been a part of the Fortress’ permanent contingent since Athara was quite young. And like most of the officers who had been around the Fortress for any length of time when she was a child, Ifan had a bit of a soft spot for her; more so than Corli, at least. Corli had been a rare exception—he’d been the Emperor’s man without question; a rarity in Vader’s sanctuary, to be sure. Suspicion began to niggle in the back of Athara’s mind at the thought and, for the first time since disembarking from the _Falcon_ , the Force hummed around her. It was neither in reassurance or warning, but it was comforting nonetheless.

“I know you’re isolated here, but surely you’ve heard I’m not ‘My Lady’ anymore?” Athara’s voice was as carefully neutral as her features, though her eyes narrowed slightly of their own accord. Behind her Han shifted in anticipation, as did one of two of his commandos; not that she could blame them. This certainly was an…unusual situation.

Ifan’s eyes flicked to Han and the Rebel commandos, the corner of his lip tugging even as he reinforced his own careful expression.

“So we’ve heard,” he said dryly before resuming his brisk officer’s manner, “but orders are orders, Ma’am.” Athara frowned, brow furrowing as an inkling of what he was about to say sprang to mind…no… He wasn’t…

“My Lady. We surrender. Command of the Fortress is yours,” he said briskly, his words ringing with official weight. Regardless of the warning her intuition had provided, there was no hiding the surprise that widened Athara’s eyes and left her mouth all but hanging open despite her best efforts. Behind her, Han and Luke’s surprise was tangible and the commandos shifted uncomfortably with confusion. But none of them had anything on the bewilderment cascading in riotous waves though Athara.

“Orders?” she clarified softly. Again Ifan nodded. Mind whirling almost painfully, Athara inclined her own head as long-ingrained instinct took over. She absently hooked her lightsaber back on her belt.

“Very well, Commander.” She surprised even herself at how steady and authoritative she sounded; she’d half-expected a hoarse squeak. With a sweeping gesture that felt uncomfortably familiar, she was striding forward past Ifan and through the gauntlet of troopers standing at attention.

She took some reassurance in that it was Luke that fell into step next to her rather than Ifan. Han followed close behind, falling into step with the Imperial Commander. It was something they both found a bit surreal, if Athara could trust her senses just then. Well, it was surreal to her too.

As soon as they reached the Command Centre Athara was nodding Han and N3 forward. Even as she glanced back to Ifan, the older commander was quickly instructing his communications officer to provide whatever assistance the Rebellion General required. With a silent gesture of thanks, she turned back to Han, briefly startled that he was looking to her for confirmation before regaining herself and passing on an equally silent prompt to go ahead. When she glanced to Luke, there was a faint smirk on his face as he mouthed, ‘it’s your op.’ She could only scowl, earning a soft chuckle from her Farmboy. She was just turning back to survey the familiar Command Centre when his soft, questioning tone drew her attention.

“So he left instruction to turn the Fortress over to you.” Luke looked deep in thought even as he steadily met her eye. “Did you have any idea he would do such a thing?” She nearly wrinkled her nose at his uncanny ability to pinpoint her thoughts right at that moment; he never used to be able to do that. Exhaling slowly, using the action to help calm her racing thoughts and jumbling emotions, Athara shook her head.

“He was willing to overlook catching me with the Alliance on Hoth when I—on Bespin,” she answered in the same low tone, hesitating slightly at memory of her poor decisions on the gaseous planet. “He’d made a point of keeping my running until that point quiet and—judging by the behaviour toward me by some of his officers in Cloud City, he’d laid groundwork to explain away my disappearance in case I came back. Then?” She hesitated again before pitching her voice lower still. “Before I defected outright? I might have expected it. But once I threw in with the Alliance? I don’t understand this, Luke.”

“He obviously still trusted you.” She let loose a neutral sound that neither agreed nor disagreed. Not far away, Ifan noticed the sound, choosing that moment to approach.

“That would’ve been beside the point, I think,” she hedged as the Imperial came to a stop next to the two Force-users.

“I imagine more Rebels will soon be on their way?” Athara restrained herself from rolling her eyes at the Commander’s less than enthusiastic tone. She did have a certain image to maintain, after all, no matter that she’d been slowly allowing herself more freedom in her expressions the last few years than she had ever allowed herself as Obscura.

“Indeed,” she confirmed distractedly, her mind immediately turning to the inherent potential, even inevitable complications when more Alliance forces arrived. “How many more of you are there besides those in this room and the troopers outside?”

“Another squad of troopers. Perhaps another dozen officers and support staff. The regular complement of droids.” Athara nodded absently at his report. That was pretty standard for when her Master wasn’t in residence…and even when he was.

“Gather everyone left in the Fortress to the Garrison common quarters. I don’t know how trigger-happy the Alliance forces are likely to be in this place, so keep your men on stand down until they get here. I’d like excuses to start a firefight kept to a minimum,” she finished dryly. He nodded in understanding, shifting as though ready to excuse himself. But Athara had another question that had him pausing.

“Is Vaneé still here?” Ifan glanced to her at her low query, fixing her with an assessing look before responding.

“He is.”

“Confine him to his chambers. Use two of our Commandos.” Ifan watched her with barely concealed curiosity as she called over to two of the Rebels and repeated the order she’d just given the Imperial Commander.

“My Lady?” Athara fixed him with an assessing, intent look of her own. Ifan seemed to catch on quickly enough, but she clarified anyway.

“Vaneé may have been my Master’s…attendant, but his loyalty belonged solely to the Emperor…plus,” she added wryly, “he was never my biggest fan.” Ifan smirked. Just as the old man’s allegiances were well known, _that_ had been no secret, that was for sure. But before Ifan could properly respond, their attention was drawn across the way.

“Yeah, General. Just walked right up to the front door and let herself in…well, she did tell you all as much. And it’s not really a base…” Over by the comm, Han was—with a surprising, albeit quickly fading degree of patience—explaining where they were and what they were doing. “I don’t know why you all were so interested…there’s not even a full garrison! There are a couple of officers and Stormtroopers and they surrendered without even a dirty look.” Athara finally did roll her eyes as Han’s snark finally made an appearance. Beside her Luke groaned. Ifan looked faintly affronted, his back stiffening as his lips pursed.

“We were under orders to relinquish command peacefully should the Lady Obscura return,” he muttered defensively under his breath, “had we so desired we could’ve easily—” he caught himself with an embarrassed expression as the words slipped out, his pale cheeks pinking slightly. Athara tried and failed to hold back an amused grin.

“We were expecting a little more in the way of resistance,” she pointed out wryly, “a little more of a challenge considering that it’s no secret I’m a Rebel now.” He ceded her that point with a nod. She eyed him curiously before continuing. “Especially since I was anticipating Corli to still be in charge.” Ifan was intelligent and quick as well as supremely tactful. One had to be to survive in a command position in Vader’s personal sanctuary. He knew what she was asking.

“Commander Corli disappointed Lord Vader and was…relieved of command,” he explained delicately. But Athara could easily read between the lines, and that only piqued her curiosity. Corli had been the Fortress’ Commander for a long time, after all, and that was no small feat in Vader’s service.

“And what did he do to earn so…permanent a demotion?” Next to her she sensed the instant Luke picked up on their meaning, easily recognizing his sudden unease. Ifan paused, considering how best to explain before deciding to be frank; he’d been around her and her Master long enough to know candidness was easily the best policy with them both.

“He voiced his disagreement about Lord Vader’s order to reset all of the security codes to the Fortress—with the exception of your older clearance codes,” he explained sedately. Athara spun to pin him with a demanding look. Ifan merely nodded. Well…frankness could be a double–edged sword… “Lord Vader was sure you’d come back, My Lady. And,” he hesitated before continuing, “and I don’t think he cared on what side by the time he made that order.”

“When?”

“I beg your pardon, My Lady?”

“When,” Athara repeated, clarifying. “How long ago did he give that order?” Ifan frowned as he thought back.

“About maintaining your older access codes? Nearly a standard year ago, I believe. About surrendering command of the Fortress to you regardless of your allegiance?” Athara started at that additional detail, something the Commander politely ignored. “Shortly before he left to inspect the progress on the Second Death Star.” Athara sighed heavily, her hand rising to massage her temple as her thoughts and emotions ran riot. Did that mean he’d had some sort of…feeling…premonition, even, that the Empire would fall? Dare she even think it, a hope that it would?

Did he suspect he was going to die on the Second Death Star?

“If I may speak freely?” Athara was jolted from her thoughts at Ifan’s gentle but cautious tone. With a nod she gestured for him to continue, not quite trusting her voice just then. “Lord Vader was loyal to the Emperor to the end, but…” he hesitated before continuing, his voice strengthening as he fixed her with a look of conviction “…but I personally believe that forsaking you was a line that he wouldn’t cross even if his life depended on it.” She shot Ifan a sharp look, unsettled by the knowing look in his shrewd eyes.

“Don’t forget, My Lady,” he said, seeming to know what she was thinking, “I’ve been stationed here a long time. I remember when he first brought you here, little more than a tyke, before you started wearing that hood of yours; feisty, guileless little thing you were even then; tough too. Those of us here saw a side of him—and a side of you—that no one else in the Galaxy could claim to know. A…reward for our loyalty, you could say. You could even say he…that Lord Vader had to trust us implicitly to assign us here in the first place.” She frowned, the expression defensive more than anything. It was only when she felt Luke’s steadying hand brush against the small of her back that she realized she was shaking.

With a faint nod the Commander silently excused himself, but not before relaying one final comment.

“You are still cleared to enter his chambers, My Lady.” With that he turned to see to her standing orders, his tone crisp and concise as he set his subordinates scurrying. Leaving Athara standing next to Luke, feeling very unsettled indeed. She’d expected returning to this place would be difficult on an emotional level.

She hadn’t quite expected it to be this difficult.

It was bad enough that even Luke’s hand slipping into her own helped very little.

Force, she hated feeling so vulnerable… Athara knew her grip on Luke’s hand had to be painfully tight, but she couldn’t seem to let go. Her feelings were too frazzled, too chaotic, too…grieved…it was only then that she was forced to confront the fact that she hadn’t truly let herself grieve yet…

The Command Centre suddenly felt too crowded. She needed to leave…

She needed…

She knew where she needed to go.

“Han, you’re in charge,” she called distractedly even as she turned on her heel. Without waiting for a response, she was whisking from the Command Centre, barely hearing Han’s confused, “Err, yeah, sure Athara.” With a gesture she had the door sliding open. Had she not been so distracted, she would’ve grinned at how surprised the Rebels had been as compared to the Imperials; Vader’s men were long used to seeing her Force-abilities in action like that.

But her tumultuous thoughts were already far away from the Command Centre before she even passed through the door.

With a billow of fabric she was gone.


	22. Return to Mustafar

** Part II **

Before she knew it she was standing in front of the thick doors guarding her Master’s chambers, her hand hovering, frozen, above the keypad.

“Athara?” She barely reacted when Luke called her name, not quite so far gone that she hadn’t sensed him following her the instant she’d swept from the Command Centre.

As he came to a stop beside her, a hand coming to rest gently on the small of her back, she inhaled deeply, forcing herself to relax, thankful when her Farmboy brushed his consciousness against hers and letting her draw from his calm. Finally managing to get her riotous emotions back under control, she flexed her fingers and punched in her override code.

As Ifan had promised, a faint beep of acceptance sounded and with a clunk and a deep, low whir, the doors slid open.

It was just as she remembered it; dark, seemingly boundless until the dim lights began to flicker to life, lifting the dark room out of pitch-darkness into shadow. On its raised dais her Master’s Medical Unit stood, stark and imposing as always in the centre of the room.

Even the air smelled the same; artificial, faintly metallic and even a little bitter with the cloying scent of bacta clinging around the edges as it wafted into the corridor.

But there was an added layer this time. A faint, almost undetectable staleness. As though the room itself knew it was now obsolete. It hung in the air too, giving the faint sense of abandonment to the chamber even though every surface gleamed dully, perfectly maintained, as though it had just been used and was ready for its patient to walk through the door at any moment.

It was a sense powerful enough that Athara nearly turned, almost expecting her Master to be striding down the corridor toward her.

Her vision began to blur as her breath caught painfully in her chest.

She hastily swiped the moisture from her lashes as she stepped into the chamber.

Step by aching step, she walked deeper into the chamber, her eyes reluctantly scanning the familiar sparse furnishings and the almost industrial looking equipment arrayed around the room. Her lungs burned. She sucked in a lungful of air, having barely realized she’d been holding her breath. Almost without consciously meaning to, she had already reached the Medical Unit, her weight already settled on one leg as the other was preparing to take the first step up onto the dais where it sat.

But she felt frozen, not quite able to make that final step. For some reason, the sense was growing deep down in the pit of her gut that, if she stepped into the Unit, it would somehow make it real.

Her Master was gone.

But yet he wasn’t. She forced herself to focus on that thought. He was not gone, not forever. He was one with the Force. She’d _seen_ him on the Forest Moon of Endor. She’d even _spoken_ to him on Naboo! The anxious, clenching grief trying to take hold of her eased at the memory. _Vader_ was gone, but her Master was not.

Her foot landed on the first step.

It still hurt—there were a lot of memories tied to these chambers—but mercifully she found the pain dulled by the repeating assurance echoing through her mind: he’s not truly gone.

She turned back to Luke where he’d been cautiously following her into the chamber, giving her time to sort through her feelings.

“It feels…different.” At the sound of her soft comment, the young Jedi glanced up to her from surveying the chamber around them. With a few steps he was at her side, his gentle hand landing on her shoulder before slowly curling around her. Gratefully she leaned into the comforting embrace. He let out a loaded breath, his eyes once again slipping away to look around the gloomy chamber.

“Wait a minute…this…this stuff is…medical equipment,” Luke murmured, his voice betraying his astonishment at the realization. Athara sighed, knowing full well there was little point in keeping those secrets anymore. At least not with Luke.

“This place was little more than a well-hidden hospital, Luke,” she admitted sadly as he came to a stop beside her, her low murmur nevertheless echoing around the cavernous room. Luke sighed heavily, turning away slightly to further take in their surroundings, his gaze sharper now that he knew the purpose of the chamber. She could sense the moment when it hit him just how damaged his father’s body must have been for him to need such equipment in his personal chambers.

“You’re still keeping his secrets,” he commented softly, unable to quite hide the hurt in his voice. Athara tried to pull away, but his gentle hold didn’t let up. “Why didn’t you just tell me? He was my Father; you can trust me.” There was no real accusation, but Athara heard it anyway.

“I can’t help it, Luke. I’ve been keeping his secrets a long time,” she said, feeling impossibly tired in that moment. “It's instinct more than anything, anymore.” Luke turned back to her, a frown creasing his brow. After a long moment he sighed heavily, his arm tightening around her.

“I’m sorry, Athara. I…forget sometimes just how necessary it was.” She forced a smile for him. But it was hard.

“It’s okay. You’re right,” she admitted after a moment, pulling away to face the Medical Unit again. Taking a deep breath she climbed the couple steps, hesitating only for a split-second before stepping into the Unit itself. As she paced around the confined space, her hand rose nearly of its own accord to run along the back of the throne-like chair situated in the Unit’s centre. She looked down at it for a long moment. It was the only part of the Init—the entire room even—that did not look in pristine, nearly untouched condition. The seat and back were worn from bearing the weight of its cybernetically-repaired occupant for years upon years, the antiseptic surface dulled and indented from long use. She sighed herself, her fingers inadvertently tightening on the sparsely cushioned back.

She remembered the first time her Master had brought her here, the first time she’d seen the Medical Unit; she could still remember the feel of how wide her eyes had gotten at the sight of the ominous-looking structure that dominated the room; how her stomach had flipped uncomfortably at the realization that her Master _needed_ the specially appointed chamber to survive. As she glanced around the consoles, she absently recalled and reviewed the functions and processes for each one, the memory of her Master’s voice in her ear and his hand on her shoulder as he taught her what each panel and console was responsible for and how and when to activate their specific programs and subprograms. She just couldn’t turn the memories off, it seemed. No more than she could turn off the impulse to keep her Master’s secrets. But that impulse, at least, she was learning to work past.

Especially for the sake of the man waiting patiently at the bottom of the dais.

She looked up at Luke, who watched her carefully. “I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, even him,” she said softly, gesturing absently to her Master’s chair. Luke smiled warmly up at her, cautiously stepping up onto the dais. He didn’t step into the Unit though. She could sense that he didn’t feel ready to do it, not having only just realized what the presence of such facilities meant.

But as she looked back down to the seat, something caught her eye. Skirting around the chair Athara approached the console on the opposite side of the Unit, her hand already lifting as she moved.

She very nearly couldn’t bring herself to touch the familiar lightsaber where it sat, obviously waiting for her. Just outside the Unit Luke frowned, unsure of what had caught her attention.

“What is it?”

“My lightsaber,” she murmured absently in response, turning back to her Farmboy. Luke’s frown cleared as understanding and sympathy took its place. “He kept it.”

“Of course he did,” he said softly. “He loved you, Athara. No one could ever doubt that.” She looked up to him, her vision once again beginning to blur. He smiled sadly, but there was no reproach or jealousy to the expression. A faint, hitching breath escaped her as she hastily dashed away the tears beginning to escape. She forced in a deep, controlled breath, struggling again to rein in her feelings. Longing and a stabbing sense of ‘missing’ ached in her chest.

“I just wish I could talk to him again,” she finally said, her voice thick and wavering with emotion, looking around the Unit before her blue-grey eyes dropped back to her old lightsaber—the one he’d taken from her on Bespin. “Part of me had hoped…”

“That he’d be here?” She looked up to Luke. She had. Until he’d said it aloud, she hadn’t entirely realized it, but she had. She’d been hoping that he might appear to her here. That she’d be able to talk to him again the way she had in the garden on Naboo.

“He won’t come back here.” Athara and Luke turned at the voice; familiar to Athara, unfamiliar to Luke.

“Master Qui-gon!” The younger Jedi’s eyes widened at Athara’s exclamation, realizing who the ghostly Jedi was the instant he’d sensed her comfort at seeing him. With a faint, albeit reserved smile, the older Jedi nodded his greeting to his pupil before elaborating.

“Anakin will not come back here. Even now that he is one with the Force and he has made his peace with the past, this place holds too many bad memories.” Qui-gon paused, looking around the chamber with a distant, thoughtful expression on his face. Athara stepped out of the Medical Unit to stand at Luke’s side, looking down to where Qui-gon had come to stand at the bottom of the dais. “It’s here, on this planet, that saw what was left of Anakin supplanted by Vader.” Athara frowned.

“How so?” she asked tentatively. Qui-gon’s sad smile grew sadder. Athara’s stomach dropped. “His injuries…his attack on Padmé…it really did all happen here. On Mustafar.” It was Luke’s turn to frown, the uneasy expression overtaking the one of curiosity Qui-gon’s appearance had inspired. “I'd never known for sure.” Qui-gon nodded, glancing to Luke. Athara felt sick.

“Yes. It’s here on Mustafar where Anakin finished his evolution into Darth Vader as the Galaxy—as you both—knew him. The unspeakable acts that preserved his life may have been performed on Coruscant under Palpatine’s watchful eye, but it was here on Mustafar that he threatened the lives of those he had once cared for more than his own life. It was here that my apprentice faced and defeated Anakin, though he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the man who had once been his brother. It was here that Vader consumed Anakin completely.”

“He nearly killed my mother here?” Athara reached out to Luke, her heart aching at the pained way his voice shook. His hand tightened almost painfully around hers as she laced her fingers with his. Slowly Qui-gon nodded. Luke’s breath hitched.

Athara, though, was suddenly fighting back a sudden rush of rage and sorrow at the very idea.

“That monster!” Luke’s gaze jerked to Athara in shock and confusion at her sudden furious outburst, his eyes wide. Qui-gon sighed heavily, his sorrow and understanding clear on his face.

“Athara? Vader—” But she barely paid any mind to her Farmboy’s bewildered objection, not even realizing he’d misunderstood the focus of her sudden fury, her gaze snapping to her ghostly mentor. Qui-gon, however, knew exactly what had sparked her temper. He fixed her with a stern look.

“Calm yourself, Athara,” he cautioned firmly, sympathy nevertheless clear in his eyes. Athara’s eyes flashed, barely registering what he’d said.

“He _insisted_ Vader’s Fortress had to be here! He knew! He had to know what happened here! How being here would keep ripping at those wounds every second he was forced to linger here! That wretched, evil, Hutt-sucking—”

“Athara!” Athara’s jaw snapped shut at Luke’s exclamation, her teeth clenching so tightly that they began to ache. Her anger began to ease…but only just. Her lightsaber dug painfully into her fist as her hand clenched tighter around the weapon.

“Don’t let your anger control you,” Qui-gon added almost gently. Forcefully Athara wrenched her temper back under control, forcing back the rage threatening to overwhelm her. As her fury cooled with each deep breath, shame poured in to take its place. She hadn’t let herself lose control like that in a long time. She pulled her hand from Luke’s, regret tugging at her as she realized she must have been hurting him, her grip had tightened so. As her deep breaths began to grow ragged with self-reproach and the sorrow her anger had swept past, Athara’s arms wrapped tightly around her torso, hugging herself tightly as she struggled to let go of her anger. It grew easier as Luke’s consciousness brushed against hers, but it didn’t quite help as much as it usually did. Luke was far too unsettled and emotional himself. It was a lot to take in. Though in worse shape emotionally than he was in that instant, she still couldn’t help but reach back to him through the Force, silently offering what support she could. He looked up to her at the gesture, a wan smile curling his lips.

“Yes, Palpatine knew precisely what he was doing when he ordered this facility to be constructed here,” Qui-gon confirmed softly when he was sure Athara had sufficiently calmed herself. “It was a calculated move, intended to keep Vader firmly in his thrall and blinded by his guilt and grief. What was left of Anakin couldn’t face the things he’d done,” the Force-spirit explained softly, “and so Vader turned to his rage and to the Emperor.” Athara shuddered.

“I’d always known he hated this place,” she finally said, her voice pained and threaded with guilt, “but I never even thought to wonder why…I just assumed it was because he hated being reminded just how badly his body was damaged. That he hated how much he needed this place just to survive. Even after I started to suspect it was here that his injuries…” She looked up to her ghostly mentor.

“I never seriously considered that there was so much more to it than that.”

Qui-gon just smiled sadly. “And if you had, Vader might have felt the need to push you away.” She couldn’t help but admit he had a point. Had she pressed? Vader would have shut her out. Had she pressed hard enough? Considering the sheer potency of the pain and grief and guilt he’d had festering deep down? Her persistence, had she chosen to apply it to Vader’s history of bad feeling toward the planet his Fortress was on, would not only have been incredibly painful to him, but potentially incredibly dangerous. ‘Pushing away,’ was indeed a mild way of putting what her Master might have done.

But that didn’t make her feel any better about it.

“I still wish I’d known,” she said softly. She felt Qui-gon’s presence brush sympathetically against her mind before it faded. She didn’t even have to look up to know he’d left to give them some space. Her fingers traced absently over the lightsaber hilt in her hands. She looked up to Luke.

The young Jedi was staring at the Medical Unit with sightless eyes, a troubled look plain on his familiar features. Athara sighed heavily, looking back to the Unit herself. Her chest clenched. She hooked the lightsaber to her belt.

Stepping forward she reached out to her Farmboy, her hand lifting to rub across his back as the other rose to trail her fingers along his jaw. Gently she turned his face to her. After a moment his vibrant eyes focused, his attention returning to the chamber and to her. Tentatively, she smiled up at him in what she hoped was sympathy and understanding, knowing even without having to reach for the Force how conflicted and troubled he was by what he had learned since coming to his father’s Fortress. Far more conflicted than he was letting on. Sure enough, when she reached out with the Force she was met with a wave of hurt and grief and disbelief that was trying to eat at him, wearing at the inner calm she had come to rely on from him.

After a moment of studying his handsome, distressed features, her hand having stilled against his cheek, she pulled him closer so that their foreheads touched. At the contact he began to relax, the tension and the sorrow beginning to seep from his frame as his eyes slid shut. She only began to relax herself when his arm came up to wrap around her waist, returning her embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her fingers resuming their caress. He hummed softly at the gesture before opening his eyes to fix her with a searching look.

“What for?”

“I should have told you what I knew. It was—it was too much to spring on you all at once.” Her eyes widened at the low, disbelieving chuckle that escaped him. He pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing as he eyed her with disbelief.

“As compared to other revelations that I’ve received in the past?” A faint chuckle of her own escaped at his skeptical but somehow teasing tone. Leaning into him, she tucked her head against his neck, her cheek coming to rest against his collarbone. She could feel more than hear him sigh as his own hand—his cybernetic one, part of her realized soberly—began to rub lightly across her back.

“I suppose you’re right about that,” she finally ceded.

They stood like that for a few moments longer, Athara simply holding Luke and letting him hold her as he silently worked through the emotions that had been heaped upon him since entering her Master’s private chambers.

“It’s…it’s more than you not telling me,” he finally said softly, his breath stirring flyaway strands of her hair. Inadvertently she tensed, knowing he could feel the remorse and regret beginning to well in her chest at his words. He sighed. “Really, Athara. I do understand, and I can’t hold it against you,” he assured her. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me a little, but that’s not…it’s just…it’s just that I didn’t _know_. He was my Father. I feel like I should know more about him. I just…don’t. I don’t know him. I don’t know all that much about him. About his life, especially after he turned. I only know the stories of Darth Vader.

“That’s what bothers me.” Athara fought back the tears suddenly prickling at the corners of her eyes. Pulling back, she met his sad gaze. Her hand lifting again to cup his cheek, she leaned up to place a soft kiss against his lips. Then she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, one he gratefully surrendered to.

“Then let me tell you about him,” she whispered. Luke tensed, anticipation and an almost incredulous hope blooming within him. As he pulled away to meet her gaze there was no masking the yearning in his eyes. When he finally spoke, there was an emotional tremor in his voice.

“Okay.”


	23. Just Another Supply Run

So far, Luke was rather, well…enjoying perhaps wasn’t the best word to choose. It didn’t quite feel right to say he was ‘enjoying’ himself since joining up with the Alliance. One didn’t enjoy being part of a war, after all. He was on some level, but it was more than that. He felt useful with the Alliance, satisfied with what he was doing for them, what he’d done already. He felt like he had a purpose. That he was making a contribution. He was making a difference.

At least, that’s how he usually felt. Just now, however? He was bored out of his skull. It was almost worse than being back home on his Uncle’s farm. At least there he’s had chores to keep him occupied—and wasn’t that an odd thought to be having—and the opportunity to sneak away for some flying or to meet up with his friends.

Just now all he had to occupy himself with were reports that needed to be filled out…and he’d already finished those. And Malden and Greer weren’t the most talkative of companions, nor did they seem terribly interested in, well, much. Luke nearly groaned at the thought. Their lives were the Rebellion, and while Luke could respect and even admire that, it didn’t make for great conversation. Most topics had been exhausted on the flight to Dantooine, and neither of them seemed terribly keen on rehashing their efforts with the Rebellion so far, which he could admittedly understand…he wasn’t terribly keen on reliving his own more significant contributions either; for all that it had been a good thing, being the one behind the destruction of the Death Star weighed heavily on him…a lot of people had died because of him…and he’d lost his best friend. So he could definitely understand his companions’ reluctance to talk about their experiences in the war.

Even so, now? Greer was set up at the comm station keeping an eye out for their supply runner to arrive. Malden looked like he’d dozed off, soft snores coming from the older man where he’d made himself comfortable in the co-pilot’s seat of the small cargo ship they were waiting on.

Which left Luke to entertain himself…and there wasn’t much in the way of distraction…

He was finally considering taking a walk to stretch his legs or taking a quick nap himself when a faint pinging sounded next to Greer’s elbow.

At once the atmosphere in the ship changed, Luke and Greer both straightening with interest and Malden rousing almost instantly.

An old hand at the process, Greer was through the confirmation that the incoming ship was in fact their supply runner and was giving them the okay to the rendezvous with practiced efficiency. Though, to Luke, it felt like the exchange of coded phrases and passwords took forever. He wanted to be _doing_ something. Apparently he wasn’t doing a good job of keeping it to himself, though.

As Greer wrapped up with the incoming ship he was grinning at Luke before standing, pausing only to whack Malden lightly on the shoulder to urge him to stand too.

“Don’t get too excited, Skywalker,” the Kuati Rebel said jovially. Luke nearly scowled at the almost patronizing tone but forced it aside. “It may be something to do, but offloading cargo is not fun work.” Luke scoffed as he too got to his feet, ignoring Malden’s chuckles.

“It’s not my first supply run, you know,” he pointed out almost petulantly as he grabbed up his jacket, shrugging into it as his companions did with theirs, Malden trying somewhat futilely to brush out the wrinkles using his as a pillow had caused. “Besides, it can’t be any worse than some of my chores back home. You’ve never had to go through a vaporator harvest with my Uncle…” Greer barked out a laugh, clapping Luke on the shoulder before congenially shoving him out toward their ship’s boarding ramp as he passed.

They didn’t have to wait long before the supply ship dropped through the atmosphere and into sight. It wasn’t the ship Luke had been expecting. Malden whistled low as he caught sight of the red Corellian corvette, earning an amused grin from Greer.

“Well, that’s not Reem’s ship.” Greer laughed, having obviously been forewarned when the ship had made contact. Luke had only met Bek Reem once before on a previous supply run. Growing up on Tatooine, even near as small and out of the way settlement as Anchorhead, had acclimated him to all sorts of types from farmers to pirates and more. But he’d still found the Gran intimidating on top of being gruff and a bit unfriendly. But he knew his business and there was little doubt that he was loyal to the Rebellion, which made him alright in Luke’s books.

Next to him, Malden elbowed Greer, who grumbled softly at the gesture.

“You don’t suppose this is the red corvette making waves out there, do you? The something-or-other _Flame_?”

“Really Malden? You’ve been paying too much attention to the freighters’ gossip.” But Luke didn’t miss the amused glint in Greer’s eyes. His stomach flipped a little. He’d heard a couple of the same rumours Malden was referring to from Han. A red corvette bold enough to take on Black Sun cargo ships and best them. Luke wasn’t the most knowledgeable on that sort of thing—Tatooine Farmboy and all that—but he’d picked up enough in Anchorhead and since joining up with the Rebellion to know that taking on Black Sun ships was a big deal. Moreover, he knew enough to know that if Han was impressed it was an impressive feat. And Han had been impressed.

Apparently Malden had caught Greer’s sly look too, crowing out a laugh.

“It is too! We’ve got that ship on board?”

“Hey,” Greer interrupted, turning serious, “it’s a temporary deal, Malden. Reem’s borrowing the ship because his is out for maintenance. So keep your shirt on. It’s just another supply run.” Malden deflated a little, but something akin to admiration still shone in his eyes as he watched the incoming ship.

With a put-upon groan, the Corellian-made ship settled heavily onto the plain a couple hundred yards away from where they stood with their own ship. A few moments later a deep hiss sounded and the main boarding ramp began to descend, revealing the very Gran Luke had been expecting to see already striding down it. His companion, though, Luke had not been expecting.

She was pretty. Really pretty—beautiful even, Luke couldn’t help but think as she followed Reem down the ramp, his eyes going wide as he caught sight of her. And young. If Luke was any judge, she was younger than he was, even if only just. Her hair was long and dark blonde, tied neatly back from her face with a handful of small twisted braids, though a few strands had escaped to fly lightly around her face in the light breeze on the plain. Her complexion was very fair in a way that indicated she spent most of her time onboard a ship, though her lips were a very pretty shade of pink that Luke had to fight from staring at. She was slender but fit, her dark, functional flightsuit not making the form it hid any less appealing, and looked to be a little shorter than Luke was, though not nearly so petite as Leia. She moved easily, gracefully even. He was definitely hard pressed to keep from staring…oh, who was he kidding. He was definitely staring.

Immediately he was wondering who she was, when she’d joined Reem’s crew…whether she was going to join the Rebellion; his stomach flipped again, though for a different reason this time. There was an almost amused sort of curiosity on her face that nearly made her look younger than she already looked—and like she shouldn’t be caught up with the Rebellion or with smugglers or pirates—but the longer he looked at her, the more Luke realized that first impression couldn’t be more wrong.

It was her eyes that really gave it away. Dark blue-grey, they were sharp, keenly intelligent and spoke of experience with the darker underbelly of the Galaxy Reem often operated in. For all her pretty, almost deceptively unassuming appearance, Luke realized quickly that this was no meek girl. For all her youth and small stature, he got the sense that she could easily take care of herself. Even though her face betrayed no such thing—it betrayed very little, really—that simple fact was written quite clearly in those assessing eyes, in every controlled line of her body and with every assured step she took toward them. It was intimidating, that was for sure.

It took a surprising amount of effort for Luke to concentrate as Reem made the cursory introductions for his companion’s sake. As it was, the only reason Luke was able to manage it was because the old Gran was introducing her.

Captain Tamara.

She offered a dry grin and short nod in greeting as Reem offered her name. Despite his wondering that she had to be more than just a new member of Reem’s crew, he couldn’t quite rein in his surprise when he named her as a Captain. And he wasn’t the only one, apparently.

Malden actually spluttered a little, hiding his surprise quite poorly with an almost-believable cough. If she noticed, she made no indication of it, merely surveying each of them in turn as Reem gave their names.

Luke nearly gulped with nerves as those keen eyes landed on him, his back inadvertently straightening as an anxious flutter was set loose deep in his gut. Intimidating or not, she was captivating…not that he was about to admit even an inkling of his sudden infatuation; he’d never live it down, that was for sure.

But there was a glint of curiosity and amusement in her gaze, one that almost made Luke feel like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

And wasn’t that unsettling.

A small part of him knew that he should be wary of her, recognizing that she was undoubtedly as dangerous as she was capable.

But another part, a part Ben had been encouraging him to listen to, to trust—the part of him that was instinctively guided by the Force—was drawn to her. He suddenly couldn’t escape the sense that she was going to be important to him. Though just how was a mystery.

Well, not exactly. Another little part of him knew exactly how he hoped she might be important to him…

He physically shook the thought from his head as he, Greer and Malden followed Reem and Tamara back up and into the Corvette to start unloading. That was not an appropriate line of thought.

The only way any of it was going to happen, be it working with her in the future or, well, whatever it was that small, wistful little part of him hoped could happen, he would need to talk to her first. Though nerves threatened to vibrate up through his chest at the thought, an eager grin came to his face at the surge of boldness that accompanied it.

One thing was for certain…

This was not just another supply run.


	24. A Sense of Kindred Sympathy

One inarguably nice thing about Varykino for Leia was that, with her birth mother’s enthusiasm to look after Ben, she was allowed some time alone with Han. A precious commodity, to be sure.

It happened so rarely anymore, what with the constant battle to get the reinstated and reorganized Senate on track to actually accomplish anything and the fight to rein in the remnants of the Empire still clinging to their convictions, Han and Leia rarely had any time to themselves. What free time they did have they tried to devote to their son.

He was growing up without them. Already the little boy was four years old, a boisterous, curious ball of energy that had Han’s mischievous cleverness, her stubbornness and even Luke’s sensitivity—or arguably, Padme’s sensitivity since Luke seemed to have inherited that from their mother.

And Ben had latched onto his grandmother with an unwavering devotion. Almost to the point where it inspired jealousy in Leia. But then, she had to accede that that was, to some extent, her own doing, no matter that the more unreasonable side of her was loathe to admit as much. For a great deal of his young life Ben had been safely tucked away on Naboo with Padme. It wasn’t practical to be dragging a toddler around as she and Han were anxiously trying to fix the galaxy and neither would it have been fair to Ben. They had tried for a while, but it had only led to Han and Leia working themselves into an anxious misery trying to balance their duties to the Republic and their responsibilities to their child. More importantly, it left Ben simply miserable.

So, when Padme had offered to give Ben a stable place to stay whenever Han and Leia were needed elsewhere, the couple had been relieved to take her up on it. She was family, and there was no doubt the older woman adored her grandson. So while Leia lamented that she wasn’t so close to her son as she would have been in an ideal galaxy, she was at least able to recognize that this was the best they could make of a less than ideal situation.

And it meant there were mornings like this.

Leia’s arm tightened around Han’s waist as they wandered aimlessly through the gardens of Varykino. The morning was warm but not warm enough to be unpleasant, the sun strong enough to have burned off the damp chill that sometimes lingered by the lakeside. The ambient sounds of the gardens were peaceful, the breeze whispering through the flowers and stalks, while insects fluttered and buzzed contentedly through the sweet-smelling air. Distantly she could hear the sound of Ben’s high, joyful giggle, followed by her mother’s cheerful admonishments and Luke’s happy laughter. Leia smiled. It had been a nice surprise to find Luke here when she, Han and Ben had arrived the day before.

Admittedly, though, she had been less pleased to see Athara. Even after the years that had passed, and though she continued to prove her devotion to Luke and to mending the wrongs caused at her hands and the Empire’s, Leia still couldn’t manage to warm up to the former Imperial Agent. She was trying, though perhaps not quite as much as she insisted she was when Han questioned her on it. There was simply too much history there. There was too much pain to just set aside. Leia really was trying, but it wasn’t easy.

Thankfully, Padme had appointed herself the keeper of the peace between the two younger women, and it certainly put her latent political skills to use. Thanks to the older woman, Leia and the former Imperial Agent had reached a tentative truce at least, especially when Athara and Luke had married in a quiet lakeside ceremony here at Varykino. But that still didn’t mean Leia was happy when encountering the former Sith apprentice.

As though merely thinking on her rocky relationship with her new sister-in-law was enough to ensure her appearance, Leia had to bite back a noise of dismay when, upon turning a corner in the gardens to pass the back terrace, she and Han were no longer strictly alone.

Athara sat on a stone bench near the edge of the terrace, just looking out over the lake. She was curled up as best she could manage, leaning back against the warm-hued wall of the Villa’s main building. Her growing belly made curling up virtually impossible, something Leia didn’t remember fondly from her own pregnancy with Ben; she’d missed curling up, whether it was in a soft chair, a bunk on the _Falcon_ or against Han’s side. An involuntary pang of sympathy fluttered in Leia’s chest, something the Alderaanian princess found distantly bewildering. The former Sith’s hand massaged gently over the swell where her and Luke’s baby grew, her expression distant. Leia frowned. Athara’s face was nearly blank—admittedly not entirely unusual in her experience—but Leia was surprised by how troubled the former Imperial Agent seemed despite her schooled features.

Leia didn’t even have to look up to Han to know the former smuggler wasn’t about to just let them walk the other way, but they nevertheless exchanged a look that had Han silently asking Leia to be patient while he checked on his friend. Though there was likely a healthy dose of reserve in her eyes, Leia nodded in agreement, unable to help but grin with loving exasperation at the relieved glimmer in Han’s eyes before he looked up again to their sister-in-law.

“Athara?” The former Sith apprentice jumped minutely at the sound of Han’s voice. Leia couldn’t stop the shock that no doubt came to her face at the fact that they had _surprised_ Athara. That never happened. She snuck a glance at Han’s face, satisfied with her own reaction in comparison to the look of abject bewilderment on her husband’s face. He was even more astonished than Leia.

However, that astonishment shifted quickly enough to a mischievous glint that had Athara scowling.

“Switch off, Solo,” she snapped without bite right as Han opened his mouth to make a smart comment. Leia couldn’t help but giggle at the affronted look on her husband’s face. Almost immediately his hands were rising in a gesture of surrender as his trademark crooked smirk tugged at his lips. Leia nearly snorted in amusement. At least he learned something from her pregnancy with Ben: don’t get on the pregnant woman’s bad side.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said defensively, his tone somewhat at odds with the grin on his face. “I was only going to ask how you and Skywalker Jr. were doing.” Athara quirked a sceptical brow at him, a flicker of amusement passing over her features. Not for the first time, Leia was struck by how at ease her husband was with the former Sith—and not for the first time she was vehemently denying the shard of jealousy at the camaraderie between the two of them.

“You were going to ask why I’m hiding,” the former Imperial Agent quipped back dryly, fixing Han with a knowing look. Han shrugged away his involuntarily sheepish reaction, though his eyes narrowed slightly at the way his friend’s expression seemed to be closing off further.

“Maybe I’m a little curious,” he admitted, his grin widening. “I’ve barely seen you and the Kid apart since we got here. What, is he hovering?” And unreadable flash of emotion surfaced for a split-second on the other woman’s face as she shifted in her seat, stifling a groan of discomfort as she did. While she may not know Athara well, Leia couldn’t help but think Han had, if not hitting it outright, gotten at least close to the mark with his comment.

“He means well,” Athara finally answered carefully, her tone fond if a little exasperated despite her still guarded expression. That, and a distinct note of exhaustion that Leia was a little surprised she caught on to.

Glancing up to her husband’s rather sympathetic nod of understanding, Leia looked back to Athara, reading between the lines as the former Imperial shifted subtly again, the trace of exhaustion once again making its brief appearance. “Baby making it hard to sleep?” Leia surprised herself with the question, but she kept it to herself. Athara’s lip quirked, lessening her troubled look by a fraction. Her hand rubbed unconsciously against her belly.

“Yeah. She knows that I—well, she apparently doesn’t want to let me sleep anymore than my thoughts do.” Han shot Athara a questioning look.

“She? You know it’s a girl?”

Athara’s gaze was blank for a different reason now; surprised rather than closed off. “Of course.” Leia elbowed Han in the ribs, earning a splutter of indignation. Leia gave him a pointed look, easing up only when he caught on.

“Oh, right. The Force…”

Leia couldn’t help but roll her eyes affectionately while Athara chuckled. No, she was giggling! The Dark Lady Obscura was giggling! The former senator glanced over to the former Sith apprentice, barely able to keep her astonishment to herself. She’d never understood how Han and Luke could speak so warmly of Athara. The other woman had always seemed so cold and distant to Leia. But watching her giggling at Han’s embarrassed discomfiture allowed Leia a surprising glimpse behind Obscura, possibly Leia’s first.

For a split-second, Leia got the feeling that, perhaps, had things been different, she and Athara might have been friends. It was an odd feeling.

Struck by a sudden impulse she was quite sure she’d probably think herself crazy for later, Leia gave Han’s arm a gentle squeeze then, giving him a pointed look when he glanced down to her. Frowning a bit even as understanding lit in his eyes, he leaned in to place a quick kiss on her temple. Then, shooting Athara a quick grin of commiseration—babies made for sleepless nights both before and after birth after all, something Leia knew Han remembered well—before slipping away.

Leaving Leia alone with Athara.

Possibly for the first time. Ever.

At least, if one didn’t count their time on the Death Star.

“I may not have Luke’s or your uncanny ability to just ‘know’ things,” she finally said softly, forcing any trace of tentativeness or habitual animosity from her voice, “but I can tell something’s bothering you.” Athara bristled defensively as the Alderaanian Princess broke the loaded silence that had descended as Han disappeared into the garden. But as Leia’s implied question hung between them, the former Imperial Agent suddenly seemed to deflate, her eyes growing noticeably troubled despite managing to keep the emotion from appearing on her features.

But then she was looking away, gazing out over the lake again. It left Leia feeling like she’d overstepped, like the other woman was shutting herself away again after a moment of vulnerability. Yet, Leia couldn’t help but edge closer, giving into the impulse to do so despite another part of her urging caution, still not entirely able to trust the woman.

When Athara finally spoke, though, it wasn’t what Leia expected.

Not that she’d honestly been expecting the former Sith apprentice to answer at all…

“I can understand now why the Jedi were effectively forbidden from having children,” she said quietly, “I never could understand the logic…but now? I can. I would do anything for this baby. _Anything_ , just like my Master did for…the fear, the worry; it’s almost too much, especially for those who have known the Dark Side…”

A brittle smile drew across Athara’s lips. “I would burn the Galaxy down if it meant keeping this child—my child, Luke’s child—safe. I would do anything,” she said softly, her tone low and earnest and woven threads of Darkness. It sent a shiver of fear through Leia. Never would she have expected the former Sith to open up like this. Never. Leia’s throat constricted at the implications; it was only because of her exhaustion that the former Dark Lady’s defenses were coming as close as they were to cracking.

Athara looked up to Leia then, her blue-grey eyes impossibly conflicted as they slid away from the glimmering water to meet Leia’s.

And, Leia noticed with a start, unmistakably frightened.

“That scares me, Princess,” she said softly, her voice almost emotionless as her eyes grew veiled and shadowed. “Everything I’ve done to turn away from the Dark Side? I can’t let myself think like that— _feel_ like that.” She sighed heavily, turning back to the lake.

“And yet I do.”

Leia was speechless, both from the candidness of the confession and the sheer potency of the emotions lingering just below the surface.

Was this why she always seemed so cool, even aloof?

Because she was hiding _this_?

It was then that Leia felt something she never thought she’d feel in relation to the former Imperial Agent.

A sense of kindred sympathy.

Having learned everything she had about her birth parents? About Anakin’s fall? She’d been plagued by similar fears when expecting Ben.

Even now, those fears lingered…and had grown to include fear for her son as well.

Leia knew she was at risk to the Dark Side. She had always known her temper ran hot and that she sometimes let her anger and her fear get the better of her. It was something she’d been striving to control since she was a child and she was well aware that she was not always successful. Knowing now that she was Force-sensitive? It not only explained why her sometimes volatile temperament almost had a life of its own, but it made those traits dangerous to an extent that non-Force-sensitives never had to worry about.

So, bewildering as it felt, Leia could sympathize with the woman sitting before her.

Finally, Leia sighed herself, cautiously taking a seat on the far end of the stone bench Athara occupied. They weren’t suddenly best friends, after all. There was a grateful glint in the former Sith’s eye that said the choice to keep some distance was appreciated.

“It’s hard,” Leia admitted after a long, heavy moment, not quite able to look up to the woman sitting a scant few feet from her. “And it gets harder.” She glanced over just as Athara did, easily recognizing the bleak look in her blue-grey eyes. The former Sith inhaled deeply, nodding faintly; she already knew as much.

“I was never meant to have this.” Leia almost didn’t hear the murmured, wistful words. Athara was no longer looking to the Alderaanian woman, her gaze unfocused as her eyes dropped to where her hand was gently caressing her growing belly. “I never dreamed…” Leia frowned, but before she could say a word in objection or otherwise, Athara was glancing back up to her, her expression expertly veiled again.

Almost.

“Who was ever going to fall in love with Lady Obscura, Princess, hmm?” The smile on Athara’s face should have been cynical and bitter, but it came across only as sad.

“I did.” Both women looked up at the sound of Luke’s voice, both taking in the calm steadiness of his expression and the faint smile curling his lips as he looked to his wife. A shaky breath gusted out of the former Sith, her eyes growing bright.

“You didn’t fall in love with Obscura, Luke,” she objected softly, “You fell in love with Tamara…and somehow stayed in love with me, with Athara, something I still don’t entirely understand.” _Or believe_ , Leia could nearly hear hanging in the air between them.

The former Imperial Senator could still feel the lingering animosity she held for the former Imperial agent nestled deep in her chest, but in that moment, Leia’s heart ached for her brother’s wife.

Obviously, Athara’s tone affected Luke far more than it did Leia, and in an instant he was at her side, pulling his wife into his arms. It was a testament to how tired and heartsore the other woman was that after only a token protesting balk she was burrowing into her Jedi’s embrace.

“There’s nothing to understand,” he said softly. “I love _you_. That’s all that matters. You’re fighting the Dark Side. And you’ll keep fighting it, just as I will. That’s all we can do; keep fighting our own Darkness.” At once, Leia was looking away, acutely feeling like she was intruding on the private moment. It was just then that a hand landed on her own shoulder before easing around her back. Recognizing the touch, Leia looked up at Han as he sank down beside her, tucking her into his side.

Maybe Luke was right.

When it came right down to it? They would all keep fighting the temptation of Dark Side. And they would do it together.

She smiled back in response to her husband’s crooked grin.


	25. Implications

As Cassian Andor, Bodhi Rook and Jyn Erso all nodded their solemn confirmation of what they'd just reported, Mon Mothma exchanged a look with both Bail and Draven, the only other two members of Alliance High Command present for the debriefing. Normally, it would've just been Draven, maybe even Mon herself sitting in on such follow-ups after a mission, but this was a special case. One that had her giving the order to send out a call for whomever could make it for an impromptu council meeting without even waiting for the debriefing to conclude.

What the two Rebels and the Imperial pilot had brought them had massive implications, not just for the Alliance, but for the entire the Galaxy.

The Death Star, it was called.

A planet killer.

"This is worse than we feared," Bail murmured next to her. Mon couldn't agree more, unable to do anything but nod. It was worse. Far worse. It was a development that could spell the end of the Rebellion and any hope left that peace could be restored to the Galaxy. On her other side, Draven looked far more grave than he usually did, the brazen General seeing almost subdued. If this was true? Mon could see the doubt flickering in Draven's eyes, but she felt no such thing. No, Andor, Rook and Erso had been completely serious in their report. They believed it. It wasn't mere rumour.

But despite his doubts, Draven didn't even try to voice them. It was a testament to how serious their situation was, rumour or no.

As was the fact that Mon didn't quite have the heart to admonish him for his rash decision to order an attack on the Eadu Research Base. That could wait. It had to wait. There was far too much else of more pressing urgency than addressing yet another instance of the General overstepping himself.

There was convincing the Alliance that the fight they had all feared, the outright War they'd all been hoping to avoid was in fact upon them all. As accomplished an orator as she was, and as skilled Mon knew she was at convincing others to her cause, whatever it may be, even she doubted she would be able to rally the other leaders within the Alliance in the face of this threat.

It was simply too monumental.

And they only had so much hope to spare these days.

Force, did she feel tired. Had her self-control been any weaker, her head might just have fallen to her hands with frustration and a sense of hopelessness she didn't want to admit was beginning to wear at her.

With a silent, impatient gesture, Draven dismissed Erso, Rook and Andor, slumping back into his seat as he did so. For a moment, Erso looked like she was about to object, her eyes filling with fire as she opened her mouth, but Cassian silenced her with a hand on her arm and a pointed look. Though she looked anything but happy about it, she seemed to accept the subtle nod of reassurance he gave her. With a final, cross glance to Mon, Bail and Draven alike, she strode from the room, their Imperial pilot friend following close behind.

Mon found herself watching the young woman right up until the door hissed shut behind her, and even then, her gaze grew unfocused rather than turning elsewhere. It had been a bit of a curious exchange, and it was obvious there was more Erso wanted to say. Yet she had deferred to Cassian's silent entreaty to let him handle whatever she still felt they needed to hear. Because there was still obviously more, else Cassian would've followed her and Rook from the room. She very nearly grinned at the conclusion to be drawn; they had grown to respect, maybe even trust one another over the course of their mission. It was a small little silver lining, but Mon had learned to take what brightness she could to bolster her own hope.

Out of the corner of her eye, Draven was only just barely holding back a full-fledged scowl that Cassian hadn't complied as well. The General seemed to be regaining his equilibrium after Andor's bombshell quickly enough, it seemed. Had Mon not had years of practice at maintaining a level of decorum despite whatever personal feelings she had, she would've been very tempted to roll her eyes at the man.

"There's something else, Ma'am," Cassian said solemnly a moment after the door had slid shut behind his companions, his accent growing thicker with unease. That much had been obvious, Mon couldn't help but think wryly. As to what else he could possibly have to say, however? That was less clear. She turned back to him, her brow faintly creased in questioning. The two men on either side of her straightened, Draven frowning deeply while Bail's troubled expression sharpened into one of attentiveness. Cassian hesitated for a moment before launching into what he needed to say.

"I really do think that Galen Erso was telling the truth. I think Jyn is right about her father." Mon Mothma frowned, her keen eyes focused solely on Cassian even as her formidable mind was obviously kicking into high gear. Young Erso had insisted, vehemently, that Galen Erso was a secret defector. Draven had scoffed, earning himself a scathing, furious glare from the young woman. And Mon, though she kept it to herself better, couldn't help but agree with him. It stretched credulity. Galen Erso was one of the Empire's top science officers. If this report about the Death Star were true, he'd played a critical role in its very creation. For him to defect?

But then, a great many of those within the Alliance were technically Imperial defectors. Arguably, Mon was herself, as was Bail and Draven and dozens upon dozens more. So perhaps the elder Erso's defection was plausible. She could easily imagine the realization of what his weapon could do would be motivation enough if the man had a conscience. But to have gone so far as to somehow ensure a critical weakness was overlooked though every step of construction? Could one man really have so much power to ensure such a critical weakness would be overlooked? While she could admit his defection was plausible, that most certainly was not. Next to her Draven frowned.

"This is why you disobeyed my orders?" Mon's gaze snapped to Draven, aghast at the implication. She had certainly not authorized that. And she certainly never would've condoned it. Not in this instance. Not when Erso stood to potentially be a critical asset. Mon felt her own temper begin to grow at the realization that Draven had overstepped his mandate far more than she'd realized. He was not going to be able to step his way out of a hard look into his actions this time. Possibly even an investigation. Much as she might dreaded the prospect, Mon couldn't escape it this time. She probably shouldn't have many times before, really. She swallowed back a heavy sigh. She should have ensured the General was checked a long time ago.

But now was not the time for that, and despite a hint of similar astonishment that had flickered in Bail's eyes at Draven's remark, the Alderaanian too had forced himself back to the issue at hand.

"And what makes you think that?" Bail asked, his wary concern plainly heard. Cassian hesitated, a trace of latent fear flickering in his dark eyes.

"Obscura was there," the spy said simply. Mon Mothma's eyes widened with surprise even as her face stayed carefully considering. Next to her Bail Organa shifted, exchanging a loaded glance with her before levelling Cassian with a penetrating look of his own.

"You're certain?" Organa's tone was grave and insistent. Cassian nodded.

"As sure as I can be. Slight; petite even; long dark cloak with a big hood; and the other Imperials were all deferring to her, though the one officer didn't seem happy about it," he hesitated, the fear flickering again, "but the lightsaber was what finally gave it away." A small gusting breath of near-disbelief left the Alliance Leader.

"If Obscura was there on Eadu investigating the scientists—" Mon Mothma murmured before Bail took up her train of thought, confirming that she wasn't the only one to draw the same conclusion.

"—It means there's been a legitimate and serious security breach."

"And they were all awfully interested in Galen Erso," Cassian finished. Bail and Mon Mothma exchanged a long, loaded look. This was a critically important development. It lent an undeniable air of credibility to Jyn's claim that her father had truly defected and laid a trap for the Death Star within its very construction. It meant Galen truly had been working against the Empire by working with them.

It meant they had a chance.

And, as ironic as it might be, it would seem Obscura's very presence was what gave them hope.

"We should let Cassian bring this before the Council," Bail suggested thoughtfully, earning a nod of approval for the idea from Mon.

"Jyn should do it," Cassian interrupted then, earning a faint smile from Mon at the conviction in his voice. "It was her father's doing, and his sacrifice." He'd definitely grown to admire the fiery young woman, Mon confirmed to herself, a little surprised at the approval she felt over the idea. But then, she'd rather grown to admire Jyn Erso herself, really. It was hard not to admire the girl's spirit.

But Draven had focused on something else entirely within Cassian's report, and before Mon could find her voice again to approve of Cassian's suggestion, Draven's could no longer keep it to himself.

"We almost got Obscura?" he asked, his incredulous tone threaded with anger. Grimly, Cassian nodded, though there was a wary cast in his eyes as he looked to his direct superior. Draven swore under his breath. Mon Mothma pursed her lips, her patience wearing thinner still with Draven. The man was good at his job, there was no doubt about that; he'd somehow managed to track down Jyn Erso, after all, and that had been something Mon had privately believed impossible. But the man was a loose cannon who took matters into his own hands far more often than she would like. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on the perspective—things usually worked out for the best, which had left her little freedom for curbing him.

That was certainly going to have to change.

"Draven," she warned softly. The General shot her a harsh look, but he still nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement. Not that it stopped him from continuing even if he had reined himself in. Slightly.

"If we had gotten Obscura," he began. But Mon cut him off, standing slowly. Draven nearly leapt to his feet. Bail, on the other hand, rose just as carefully as Mon had. She really was supremely grateful for his far more rational presence just now, she mused wryly.

"But we didn't," she said before turning to Cassian, "did we?" Solemnly, the spy shook his head in the negative. Draven nearly growled, he was so frustrated. Inhaling deeply and letting it out slowly, Mon stepped around her chair, making her way toward the door. Her admittedly prodigious patience was beginning to wear thin, and the room was beginning to feel quite small. Draven was immediately falling in beside her with Bail and Cassian following close enough behind to still participate in the conversation.

"But if we had," the General pressed as they passed through the corridor and down the wide steps toward the massive landing bay below the temple, his voice rough with vehemence, "it would've been a staggering blow to the Emperor's Inner Circle." Mon paused to level the General with an impatient look, ready to admonish him again, when she noticed Cassian's grave expression falter, looking like he was about to object. Mon frowned as her attention shifted to the young spy.

"You disagree?" Andor started minutely at her question, but after a moment of thought, he did answer.

"I know what I saw on that platform, Ma'am," he said, speaking slowly as though measuring his words carefully. "It was as though they were… breaking ranks. Like they were all on different sides. The Imperial Officer against Obscura, Erso against them." He shrugged. "I'm no expert, but if what I saw on Eadu was any indication of what's going on within the Empire? They're all but at each other's throats. Killing Obscura? Lord Vader's Shadow? It would have made her a martyr, and could unite them." Mon Mothma studied the young spy thoughtfully. He did have a point. Perhaps not about the deep divisions within the Empire having grown any more disruptive than they had always been; given that they had existed nearly from day one, and that Mon and the rest of the Alliance had been taking advantage since the beginning, it was nothing new. However, he did have a point that killing Obscura might not have been the victory it would seem to be at first glance.

"You're right, you're not an expert," Draven said harshly, earning another reprimanding look from Mon. On her other side, Bail once again looked deeply troubled, even conflicted as glanced between Cassian and Mon.

"I hate to admit it," he said softly, sparing Mon an apologetic look, "but Draven is probably right. It would have saved us a lot of potential trouble in the future—not to mention dealing a huge blow to the Empire and Imperial morale—had Obscura been taken out in the attack. It would have removed a skilled player from the board."

"Or she could've been a rallying point," Mon countered rationally. "Cassian's not wrong. The Emperor would've been sure to see her painted as a martyr had the attack succeeded in taking her out. And the target on our backs would've been made all the larger. Instead of remaining an annoyance, which serves our purpose for now, it would've proven to the Emperor and to Lord Vader that we are a very real threat. We would've lost our element of surprise, if we haven't already," she said with a pointed look to a scowling Draven. "Her death could have been just as great a threat to us as her survival," Bail nodded, ceding to her point. Draven just looked sullen.

"Not so much a threat as a loss, I think, had she died." All four of them turned at the sound of a fifth voice. A knowing, nearly amused voice. Mon Mothma frowned, just as her companions did to different degrees. Draven scoffed, irritably excusing himself before effectively storming away. Though he too frowned, Cassian looked far more curious and nearly indulgent as he looked to the blind Jedha monk that had returned with him, Erso and the recovered Imperial pilot before he too made his excuses. Mon and Bail, meanwhile, exchanged wary looks. Neither of them were ignorant of the mysteries of the Force. They'd each known too many Jedi in their day to pretend otherwise.

But this monk, he'd assured them with an patient grin when he'd first arrived on the base that he was no Jedi. Yet…there was still something to him, an otherness, that Mon remembered from her encounters with any one of the few Jedi her path had crossed with. It was a sense that had her inclined to take heed of what the blind monk had to say.

"A loss," Bail asked warily. The monk's grin widened.

"The Dark Path is not the only path," he replied enigmatically. "Her eyes are beginning to open." A strange, fluttering feeling of anticipation took up residence in Mon Mothma's chest at his words, and yet again she was exchanging a glance with Bail, this one nearly alarmed.

"What do you mean," she pressed further, hoping beyond hope that this monk didn't have the same tendency to riddles that the Jedi had sometimes been known for when speaking of things they perceived through the Force. Surprisingly, the blind monk bowed his head slightly, his grin satisfied and no less bright as he proceeded to clarify.

"She'll realize she has a choice one day, and then once she sees, you will be grateful that she didn't die, I think." And there she had been hoping for a little more than that. She bit back a sigh, a little part of her wondering why she was indulging this.

Perhaps a little part of her was taking comfort in something so reminiscent of days long past, when the wisdom of the Jedi had been constant and treasured and safe.

"A choice?" The monk nodded again at her probing question, his features growing thoughtful and more serious than she had yet seen them.

"Obscura is a Child of the Force, in more ways than she realizes," he said almost reverently. Mon hesitated, a sense of significance clinging to the words that made a deep, instinctive part of her sit up and listen. And he was sure he wasn't a Jedi?

"What do you mean?" she asked, nearly surprised that her voice sounded as calm and composed as it did. That knowing, enigmatic smile returned.

"I mean she is strong in the Force for good reason." And then the feeling, the sense that she was hearing something important, dissipated. Mon suddenly couldn't help the shadow of a grin that played across her lips.

"You may not be a Jedi, but you certainly remind of them," she said wryly, earning a chuckle from the monk. Next to her, Bail grinned himself.

"That is certain," he added with his own smile. The monk nodded his head again, this time in thanks.

As they moved off, knowing that the Council was undoubtedly beginning to gather, Mon pushed the monk's words from her mind. Unsettled as they had left her, they were not gospel nor could she take them as prophecy, much as she felt they might have been. Mon simply could not afford to dwell on them, even if the monk had been implying what she believed he was. Not now, not with the Death Star hanging before them like a noose and smaller but no less worrisome trials closer to home to deal with weighing on her shoulders.

And, impactful as Chirrut Imwe's words had been on the Leader of the Alliance, they were indeed soon overshadowed by more dire things.

Yet, even though the words were eventually lost to her memory as the days and weeks and months passed, their implications and their promise stayed with her regardless.


	26. Stealing the Falcon

“Are you sure about this, Ben?” The older boy turned to look at his younger cousin, who still stood in the entry to the cockpit, her brow creased with a frown. He threw her a smile that looked an awful lot like one of his Dad’s cocky grins. He sighed dramatically when that didn’t work, jumping up from the pilot’s seat to grab her arm and tug her further into the cockpit.

“It was your idea!” he said with exasperation, pressing on her shoulder until she nearly tipped into the copilot’s seat. It felt so big, especially with a wookiee-sized depression worn into the cushioning. Behind them, the trundling sound of Artoo following them fell silent as the astrodroid wedged himself into the cockpit as best he could, managing to plug himself into the  _ Falcon _ with a cheeky brill of excitement. When he’d first caught on to what Ana and Ben were up to, the squat blue and white droid had tailed them anxiously, burbling and whistling in a decidedly scolding and cautioning sort of way. Sometimes, when Ana concentrated, she could make out most of what her father’s droid said, but she’d been too caught up in following her cousin to pay that much attention. But Artoo had quickly warmed to the idea, especially at Ana’s pleading. He’d always had a soft spot for her.

“Come on, Ana. It’s not like we’re going off-planet or anything.” Full of the confidence only a twelve year-old could possess, Ben had already settled himself back into the pilot’s seat after switching and flicking controls around the cockpit, turning his attention to yet more switches and knobs like he knew what he was doing. Ana wasn’t completely sure he did, but he certainly looked like he knew. But then, he was four, nearly five years older than she was, and his father had already let him fly the  _ Falcon _ a couple times. Her Uncle Han had even shown Ana the basics, sitting her on his lap during his last visit as Chewie looked over Ben’s shoulder in the seat the wookiee usually occupied. Not that Ana was a complete amateur pilot either; her own father taking her up in his X-wing had been one of her earliest memories.

With all the familiar clanking and groaning, the  _ Falcon _ woke up as reluctantly as ever. But, as usual, once she got going, she purred happily as Ana and Ben went through Ben’s version of a preflight checklist, with the older boy instructing his cousin in what to do in the co-pilot’s seat.

She was a little skeptical of it. Her Uncle and Chewie never went through any such thing. Though, she had to admit to herself that they’d been flying the  _ Falcon _ together for a long time. Maybe they didn’t need to talk about it anymore, and just did it. She didn’t know. So she went along with what Ben said to do.

Satisfied that they were ready to go, Ben took a firm hold on the controls, his lip caught between his teeth in concentration as he eased the ship off the ground. He looked nervous, Ana couldn’t help but notice with a feeling of trepidation.

But then they were up. Ana quickly lost all reservation as the  _ Falcon _ rose above the trees, a little shaky at first, but she soon steadied. Maybe Ben did know what he was doing. Behind them, Artoo chattered happily, sounding rather proud of his young charges.

“We’re doing it, Ben,” Ana burst out breathlessly, unconsciously standing from her seat to peer out over the console. It was amazing. They were flying.

All by themselves.

Pride and excitement bubbled up happily in her chest and she shot her cousin a thrilled look. Ben sat in the pilot’s seat, looking smug. Yet again, the expression looked uncannily like one his father would wear. Ana giggled.

“Of course we are, silly,” he chided, his tone nevertheless laughing as hers was. “I told you it was easy! Now keep an eye on the vertical stabilizer.” Ana plunked herself back down into the co-pilot’s seat, looking eagerly over to her cousin before taking hold of the controls in front of her.

“My turn now, Ben,” she declared, her eyes roving over the console in search of the switch that would transfer piloting controls over to the co-pilot. Her cousin shot her a look.

“Not yet, Ana. We should get a little higher, first. I don’t want you hitting any trees.” Ana made a sound of outrage, glaring at her cousin.

“And you think I can’t do that? I’m just as good at this as you are!” Ben made a patronizing little sound that had Ana fuming.

“Are not. I’m older! I’ve had more experience at this than you. Anyway, it’s my father’s ship.” Ana’s arms crossed over her chest and she fixed her cousin with a glare that she hoped was reminiscent of her mom’s. Given the way Ben was trying not to smirk instead of flinching the way he should have, it hadn’t quite worked.

“And how would you know that,” she countered. “We’ve only ever flown anything with one of our parents along.” But then she smirked. “And at least I didn’t actually hit a tree last time.” Ben’s expression darkened, turning a glare of his own to Ana.

“I did not,” he argued back, outraged at the very suggestion.

“Did too,” Ana crowed, triumphant, knowing she had an edge. “Besides, you said it yourself: this was my idea! That means I deserve a turn. And I am a better pilot than you. Dad even lets me fly his X-Wing without any help.”

“He doesn’t let you fly alone yet, though,” Ben snapped back, knowingly. Ana bit back a scowl.

“Sure, but I don’t actually  _ need _ a co-pilot,” she countered instead. Ben spluttered.

“Freighters and fighters are two different kinds of ships, smartypants. Even Dad has Chewie. The  _ Falcon _ needs a co-pilot. So of course I need one flying the  _ Falcon _ . That’s why you’re here.”

“It’s  _ nice _ to have a co-pilot,” Ana countered happily, “it makes it easier. But Uncle Han told me you don’t exactly need one. Not all the time.” Ben grumbled, shooting her another glare. He couldn’t argue with that and they both knew it. Ana beamed. “Now. My turn.” Behind them, Artoo snickered, though his tone held a faint trace of caution. Ben rolled his eyes even as Ana giggled.

“Hey! I am being careful, Artoo,” he said indignantly. He received a raspberry in return that had Ana laughing harder. Hard enough that she didn’t notice the blinking comm light on the console next to her.

“I should hope so,” a wry, unimpressed voice commented. Ana nearly choked, her laughter stopped so abruptly. Ben jerked before turning to glare at Artoo, who was snickering softly behind them.

“Artoo,” he hissed, “you told?”

“Yes, he did,” Athara’s voice said through the comm, “because, unlike the two of you, he knew this was a bad idea…not that he tried very hard to stop you,” she added dryly. Were droids able to swallow guiltily, Ana was sure Artoo would’ve in that moment. As it was, he made a nervous, tittering little sound. A sound suspiciously like an exasperated sigh came over the comm, and for a split-second, Ana was almost certain she heard the faint, distant sound of laughter in the background.

“Now, how about the two of you bring the  _ Falcon _ back. You’re late for a talk with me and your Uncle Han,” Athara instructed firmly. This time it was Ana swallowing nervously. Uncle Han was going to be there, so it wasn’t bound to be too bad, right?

“But Aunt Athara,” Ben whined. Ana shot him a stricken look. He knew that wasn’t about to work.

“Ben,” came Han’s voice, joining Athara over the comm. “Do what your Aunt said. Bring her back.”

“But Dad, you always said—”

“Nice try, Ben,” Han interrupted before Ben could make his argument. “You know you did it this time.” But Ana was sure she heard barely concealed laughter in her Uncle’s voice. She shot Ben a faint grin. He looked uneasily back at her, but an equally small grin tugged at the corner of his lip.

“Yes, Dad,” he muttered unhappily, just as Ana added in a ‘yes, Mom,” to appease Athara. Behind them, Artoo had let loose a low, sympathetic whistle before gently urging the two of them to do as they’d been told. Grudgingly, the two youngsters complied.

Thankfully, between the two of them, their similarly heightened instincts when it came to flying, Artoo’s guidance and the  _ Falcon _ ’s own landing assistance systems, the  _ Falcon _ was soon settling safely back onto the tarmac of the landing pad with a groan and shudder.

And out beyond the cockpit?

Two rather impassive and formidable looking parents. Ana and Ben exchanged a wary glance at the sight of Han standing with his hands resting on his hips and Athara standing next to him, her own arms crossed over her chest.

“We’re in for it, aren’t we,” Ana asked her cousin as they both stood and slipped from the cockpit, her voice decidedly small and nervous. Pale and equally nervous, Ben nodded. Only for a small, impish grin to tug at his lips as he paused just shy of the boarding ramp.

“Yeah, but you’re in for it more. It was your idea, after all.” A shriek of outrage escaped Ana and she shoved at her suddenly laughing cousin, pushing him toward the boarding ramp.

Behind them, Artoo let out an exasperated whine.

Children…


	27. Ghostly Visitors

Just now? Athara was torn.

On the one hand, she wanted nothing more than to sleep for a standard month, she was so exhausted. Not to mention sore and achy. Athara had experienced a lot in her life, enduring things most people could never even dream of surviving. But the way she felt just now was something entirely different from anything she'd experienced before.

But on the other hand?

As much as she loved Han—he was the big brother she'd never had, really, and arguably her best friend—and despite the way she and Leia had come to tolerate each other since their truce, she just wanted them to go away. She couldn't even say it would hurt her feelings if Padme were to leave as well, fond as Athara had become of her mother-in-law. Even Ben, her beloved nephew, was getting on her nerves where he sat next to her knee, face alight with curiosity.

She just wanted to be left alone with Luke…and their brand new daughter.

Their perfect little baby girl.

She had a daughter. They had a  _daughter_. A surge of fear spiked through her, causing her breath to hitch painfully.

And considering the sudden wave of apprehension she could sense from Luke? The feelings she could see clear as day in his eyes as he met her gaze? He felt the same fear.

How were they going to protect this precious little life they were suddenly responsible for? Especially from the demons they both bore? Especially Athara…

But then her daughter mewled softly, her tiny little fist escaping from the soft swaddling and the fear in Luke's eyes—the fear  _for_  their child—was gone, replaced by feelings so potent they took Athara's breath away. And her own gaze dropped to her baby.

Athara felt like her heart was about to swell right out of her chest as her attention narrowed in on the tiny being nestled safely in Luke's arms. She just couldn't help it. Her very existence now inarguably revolved around the precious bundle held by her Farmboy.

She was happier than she could ever imagined possible. Incandescent was the word that came to mind when she tried to find one that would suit. And even it came nowhere close. As she looked to her husband—part of her still couldn't believe she had him in her life either—and her newborn daughter—that she definitely still couldn't believe—her aches, pains, even her exhaustion seemed to fade, melting away. Just now? She felt like she never wanted to sleep again. And never had she felt more satisfied to feel the physical toll of her ordeal. More than that, she felt like her body couldn't possibly contain her emotions, she felt so much in that moment.

Even the overwhelming anxiety and crippling fears she'd been battling since she first became aware of her pregnancy paled in the face of the love and joy she felt just looking to the child she'd just brought into the Galaxy.

She was tiny, and she was beautiful. She was the most beautiful thing Athara had ever seen. And judging by the awed brightness in her Farmboy's eyes, it was the same for him.

She couldn't stop smiling, the emotions coursing through her overwhelming to say the least.

"You did good, Athara," Han said, settling on Athara's other side, an arm wrapping around her shoulders as he too looked over to his brand new niece. Athara smiled, leaning into her dearest friend's side.

"Thank you, Han." The smuggler smiled down at her before giving her one last squeeze and rising to return to Leia's side where she stood next to Luke. They still weren't close by any means, but even Leia had embraced Athara in congratulations, stiff and restrained as it may have been. On the other hand, it was obvious that the former Senator adored her little niece already, her dark eyes having lit up as soon as she saw the soft-swaddled bundle. She was still smiling down at the newborn, her arm around her brother's shoulders as the other tenderly brushed against the tiny hand that had escaped the blanket.

"We should leave them be," Padme spoke up then, looking to Athara and Luke with knowing eyes as she laid a hand on Han's arm before giving Leia a pointed look. Understanding immediately bloomed on the Alderaanian Princess' face and, despite her reluctance to leave the newest member of their family, she laid a kiss on her twin's cheek and smiled down at both Athara and the baby before allowing Han to lead her from the room, the smuggler only pausing to snatch up his reluctant to leave and therefore squirming son.

With a beaming grin of his own, Luke carefully laid their daughter back in Athara's arms so he could see his mother, sister, brother-in-law and nephew out. Leaving Athara alone with their daughter. She ran her finger along her daughter's soft cheek, blinking away the damp sensation in the corners of her eyes as the little girl nuzzled into her touch, her baby-blue eyes blinking blearily as she settled back to sleep after being disturbed by her father handing her back to her mother.

"He is right, Athara. You have done well." Athara looked up at the fond voice that broke the silence, her smile growing at the familiar voice. Qui-gon stood not far from the end of the bed, his glowing form barely visible in the bright light of her private med-room. And next to him?

On either side of her ghostly mentor stood the Force spirits of her father and the man who had been her father in all but name. Obi-wan smiled softly at her, his pride and love for her nearly tangible, his eyes bright despite being non-corporeal. And her Master beamed, looking nearly as incandescent as Athara felt.

"She's beautiful, my apprentice," Anakin said, his voice thick with emotion. Athara's throat threatened to close as her gaze fell back to her daughter. She adjusted the blankets, revealing the little girl so her ghostly visitors could see her more easily. When she looked up again, Anakin had edged around to stand next to her. Smiling down at her, he reached out, cupping Athara's cheek tenderly. Though she didn't exactly feel a physical touch, her skin tingled warmly at the contact. She blinked furiously as Anakin lowered himself to sit at her side, peering down at his granddaughter in unrestrained awe, the prickle in her eyes beginning to feel familiar given how repeatedly the sensation had appeared over the last several hours.

But then the faintest of movements caught her attention, and her gaze was drawn to her father. And her vision threatened to blur for a different reason. The depth of emotion from a moment before hadn't lessened, but there was a thread of sadness and regret there that had emerged when her Master had settled so comfortably next to her. The way a father would have. And despite the joy still overwhelming her, her heart suddenly felt on the verge of breaking.

So she held out her hand to her birth father. And one of her tears managed to fall at the way his shoulders hitched as though he suddenly couldn't breathe.

And her own breath catch as his hand brushed against hers; for a split-second she swore she could feel it. Not just a tingle approximating a touch, but the actual, warm touch of his fingers over hers.

"Hello, Father," she murmured. The sadness faded, and his already bright eyes grew brighter still.

It was then, looking up at the father she barely knew, that a breath painfully like a sob caught in her chest.

"How am I supposed to do this?" The words, frightened, small and nearly desperate escaped before she could stop them. And she couldn't even bring herself to feel angry at herself for allowing them to; the cold, clawing fear was back. Biting her lip as tears spilled over, her gaze dropped back to her daughter.

"We might not be the best ones to ask," Anakin said wryly, attempting to cheer her with the self-effacing comment, even if just a little. Despite herself, Athara felt her own lip quirk, even though the fear didn't abate. But he still sobered, growing haunted. "Neither Obi-wan nor I were truly allowed the chance to be fathers to our children…and I didn't exactly prove myself the best father-figure when offered a second chance." Athara forced herself to exhale slowly, the breath long and shaking, in an attempt to rein back her quickly spiralling emotions. A warm, comforting touch through the Force brushed against her consciousness, then.

It helped. Greatly.

She looked up to her father with more gratitude than she could put into words. Obi-wan smiled gently down at her, his hand ghosting over her hair. The comforting feeling intensified. It was soothing. It left her feeling  _safe_.

_It seems the least I can do_ , she felt more than heard him say. Her breath hitched again. Then she sighed, stroking her daughter's cheek, letting the warm, soft feel of her baby-soft skin sooth her fears further. A tiny sound of content came from the newborn, the little girl nestling deeper into her mother's arms.

"How am I supposed to protect her from what happened to…to us," she whispered, glancing to her Master, "to you and…and me…" Anakin sighed, looking sightlessly down at his granddaughter.

"I don't know," he said softly. "I don't even know how I managed not to completely corrupt you, consumed as I was with the Dark Side."

"By taking what you have learned to heart and passing it on." Athara and her two fathers all looked up to Qui-gon, who smiled serenely if sadly at them all.

"Master Yoda said something similar to Luke before he died," Athara said. Qui-gon nodded slowly.

"He did. You have both endured and learned so much, my Padawan," said the older Jedi, his eyes betraying his pride even though his tone was solemn. "The challenge is going to be how to use and share that knowledge. Teach her all of it. The good—" he shared a long glance with both Anakin and Obi-wan, each matching his sombre look with one of their own, "—and the hard. Just as much can be learned from failure as success, if not more."

"Though, if my son is anything like I was, he will need reminding of that fact," Anakin added with a wry look to his own Master. Obi-wan huffed in exasperated agreement. As her grin faded from the nostalgic moment between master and apprentice, Athara bit her lip once again as apprehension gripped her anew. A tingle warmed her arm and she looked up to see Anakin's serious, sorrowful gaze fixed on her. "Learn from my mistakes, my dear apprentice," he murmured, reaching out to lay his hand on her hair, nearly cradling the side of her head as he had when she was a child. "Do not dwell on your fears. Do not…do not fear your fears as I did." The words resonated deeply and Athara could only nod in understanding as her gaze dropped back to the soft bundle in her arms.

"And treasure her." She looked back up to Anakin, taking in his once again tender smile. She couldn't help but smile back.

"Yes, Master," she said, her voice thick.

"So," Qui-gon said after a moment, his voice taking on a playfully officious tone, as his eyes once again began to twinkle merrily. "Now that we have covered more serious topics," his two ghostly companions chuckled and Athara rolled her eyes fondly at his cheerful dramatics, "are we permitted to know her name?" Athara glanced to each of her and her daughter's ghostly visitors in turn before settling on her Master.

"Ana," she murmured, smiling tentatively up at Anakin. "Ana Adyé Skywalker."

Next to her Anakin's shoulders hitched, his gaze growing misty and full of too much emotion. Athara beamed at him, her chest feeling tight at just how moved he was. She could feel it just pouring off him; the awe and the love and just how overwhelmed he was. It was a potent well of emotions to sense.

"I—Athara," he objected thickly, "how could you want—after everything I've done—especially to you, to Luke…all the monstrous—" but Athara shook her head, cutting him off with a firm look.

"You saved us," she said gently, earnestly. "Despite all the monstrous things you did as Vader—even what you did to us—you fought back against the Dark Side and saved us, Luke and me both…the Galaxy, even. And you protected me, loved me, when you shouldn't have been capable anymore. So Luke and I want you to be our daughter's namesake." Anakin looked pleadingly from Athara to Obi-wan.

It was then that something in her gut clenched. Her father…how was he going to feel that she'd named her child after the man who'd—not replaced, but had still raised her when he should have…and the man who had taken her away from him in the first place. But Obi-wan was looking to Anakin with the fond exasperation due an overreacting apprentice from a patient master. And the uncertain feeling eased. Especially when Obi-wan spared her a fond, approving—if still faintly sad—glance.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not up to me, Anakin," the older Jedi said wryly, "it's your doing, going and endearing yourself to both by being a hero one last time. Not to mention, you are Luke's father, and near enough one to my daughter." Anakin swallowed thickly, looking very much like he didn't believe he deserved the tribute. But then he looked down to little Ana and his expression softened instantly.

At the foot of the bed, Qui-gon chuckled, shaking his head fondly. Athara breathed out a sigh of relief before she too looked down to her daughter.

Anakin had tentatively reached down, running his ghostly finger against Ana's delicate hand. In the time they'd all been talking, the tiny newborn had woken and was now looking blearily around, her eyes not focusing properly just yet, new and unused to use as they were.

But as Anakin reached out to his granddaughter, Ana's baby-blue eyes—already nearly the same shade as her father and grandfather's—seemed almost— _almost_ —fixed on Anakin. Once again, Athara felt her chest swell with too much feeling, the sensation beginning to feel familiar. But then next to her, the youngest of the three Jedi Masters grinned smugly.

"She's going to be a heck of a pilot," Anakin said proudly, a mischievous glint in his eye. Athara snorted.

"Considering who her father is? Her grandfather? It's in her blood," Athara quipped back dryly. Anakin chuckled at the tone, glancing wryly to his own master. Obi-wan huffed.

"I wasn't so bad myself," his gaze grew proud then as he looked to Athara, "and neither are you." Athara made an exasperated sound before glancing to her master.

"Well, you did have a good teacher," Anakin said with a laugh before his apprentice could respond. Athara chuckled while Obi-wan all but rolled his eyes.

"And I had an apprentice who always kept me on my toes," the older Jedi countered with the same dry tone as his daughter, shooting a pointed look to Anakin. Anakin just chortled.

"Not to mention she'll have the Force on her side," Qui-gon added with an indulgent look to the lot of them. "I can already sense her potential." A potent mix of pride and apprehension flooded Athara at the statement. She had sensed as much herself, but hearing it echoed by her ghostly mentor?

But then Ana nestled herself deeper into Athara's arms, a soft, small sound escaping her as her eyes slid shut. Instinctively, Athara reached out, brushing her consciousness against the sleepy, content mind of her daughter. And the apprehension melted away, leaving only wonder at the presence of the tiny girl. Already, young as she was, her presence was a bright, pure spot within the Force. Reassured, she sighed, brushing a light kiss against her daughter's pale, downy head, letting herself take in the room around her through the Force as she relaxed. Only to be nearly overwhelmed by the feelings filling the room. There was just so much love and pride and adoration for the little girl in her arms already, and she was only barely a couple hours old.

"I wish you could hold her," Athara said softly, looking to all three Force spirits, "all of you."

"She exists," Anakin said softly back, "that's more than enough." It was so earnest and assured that Athara felt her throat close up at once, her eyes yet again threatening to fill with tears. One more bonus of her daughter's long awaited arrival? Her hormones would hopefully begin to calm again and she wouldn't feel so emotional all the time. And for a woman who had spent her whole life keeping careful control over her emotions only to find that usually impeccable control thwarted thanks to biology? Frustrating was a mild way to put it.

So one could hope.

She inhaled deeply she willed her tears away, drawing on the calming influence of the Force, the presence of her ghostly visitors and the comforting presence of her Farmboy out in the main med-centre to do it. Happy tears or not, she was sick of crying.

Mercifully, after a moment, the prickling sensation began to fade. She felt Luke's consciousness brush against hers, soothing and just as overwhelmed with emotion as she was. She smiled fondly, immensely grateful as she sensed he was waiting patiently outside with his mother, giving Athara some time with the ghostly visitors. She wouldn't have minded sharing the visitors in the least with her Farmboy, but she was nevertheless appreciative for the time alone with them.

Especially her father.

"There are many, many things I regret," Obi-wan said softly then, pulling her thoughts back to the Force Spirits by her side, "but this?" Athara looked up to her father as he hesitated, the ghostly Jedi looking almost uncertain as he settled next to Athara on the bed. He turned to her, a wistful longing clear in his eyes as he reached out to brush a translucent finger over the crown of his granddaughter's head. Neither of them noticed Anakin and Qui-gon sharing a look before the two of them faded from sight, leaving their fellow Jedi in peace with his daughter. Obi-wan sighed heavily then. "Right now, I regret missing this most of all. That I couldn't hold you; that I couldn't be there with your mother when you were born…that I couldn't watch you grow…" She fixed him with a tentative, assessing look, carefully reaching out with her feelings to gauge his.

"You truly don't mind," she asked softly, not entirely succeeding in keeping the nervous tremor from her tone, "that we chose to name her after Anakin?" He said nothing for a long moment, his feelings coming across as faintly conflicted through the Force.

"Perhaps a little," he finally admitted, looking up to Athara. "But—" he hesitated, choosing his words with care even as he sorted through the mass of feelings Athara could sense swirling in him. But then he smiled, the expression both sad and reassuring. "But I cannot fault your reasons or your feelings for him," Obi-wan said gently. "He is the one who raised you, and you have become such a strong, remarkable woman in his care. And I do love him as a brother. I am…pleased, that my granddaughter is named for him." She sensed nothing but pride and sincerity from him as he spoke. A tightness in her chest eased that she hadn't even entirely realized was there. As her eyes once again began to water, his own shining gaze dropped back to Ana, his expression melting into one of pure adoration. But the sadness and regret was soon seeping back in.

"How I wish I'd had this time with you," he murmured sadly, "that I could've been there to raise you myself." Once again her tears spilled over, but this instance Athara could've cared less. She smiled up at him, reaching out to brush her own fingertips affectionately against her father's cheek. A warm tingle ran up her arm. The sorrow in Obi-wan's eyes eased as he met her gaze, blue-grey eyes meeting blue-grey.

"I wish you could've too," she murmured back.

Overcome, Obi-wan could only lean in to brush a kiss against his daughter's forehead.


	28. The Trouble With Smugglers

"So, have you heard the rumours yet?"

Athara looked up from the console in front of her as Han strolled onto the bridge of the  _Flame_  to all but throw himself into the comm officer's seat. She nearly rolled her eyes at him as he settled back to lounge comfortably before looking to her for an answer.

"Which ones? There's always something," she answered dryly, looking back to the readouts in front of her. Next to her, L4 chirruped softly, drawing her attention to the auxiliary reactor output. It wasn't quite as high as she wanted, leading her to think a visit to Madal might be in order. It wasn't that she didn't trust the competency of the Rebellion's maintenance crews, she just trusted the old Duro more. She had a feeling he had a soft spot for the  _Flame_.

Han grinned, lacing his fingers behind his head as he crossed his long legs at the ankle out in front of him.

"The ones about you and me." Athara drew back, frowning in bewilderment before looking blankly to Han. Her and… His face was the picture of amusement.

If she didn't know better, she might have been worried he was intrigued by the idea. But luckily Athara knew better. They were just friends. Purely platonic. Nothing more and no desire for there to be more. Honestly? He was beginning to feel more like a brother to her the longer she knew him. He really did feel rather like family at times. Further, she got the distinct feeling it was the same for him.

And that was without even relying on the Force to tell her as much.

Though, it did confirm it.

As what he'd sprung on her sank in, she let out an inadvertent snort.

"As if," she scoffed. An overly dramatic expression of hurt crossed his face. Athara had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing outright and ruining his fun.

"And there I thought we might have something, honey," he drawled with a charming grin. Athara snickered, filing and dismissing the readouts and sending L4 off with a fond pat. Swivelling her seat, she turned to face him, stretching out herself to nearly mirror his lounging posture.

"You're not really my type, Solo," she dismissed with a lazy gesture. He chuckled, letting himself sink a little lower in his own chair, still searching for the perfect position. With a satisfied sound, he relaxed the rest of the way when he found it, his lanky form going nearly limp.

"Yeah, I supposed you're not really my type, either," he said with a funny little grin. Athara smirked. That was for sure.

Yes, she seemed at a glance to check many of his boxes, really; she was smart, stubborn and spirited and she could banter and bicker and trade insults easily with the cocky smuggler until all the suns burnt out—but there was one crucial thing she wasn't.

She wasn't a certain fiery Alderaanian Princess…and she wasn't afraid to say as much.

He wrinkled his nose at her smug, knowing comment, before shrugging dismissively. Too dismissively, really; Athara easily recognized the deflection. But then his eyes began to twinkle roguishly and a wide grin split his face.

"Yeah, and I suppose I'm not a certain blondie-haired Tatooine X-wing pilot, am I." She huffed, resisting the urge to cross her arms defensively even as she fought the way her cheeks suddenly began to warm.

But he seemed to pick up on her discomfort just as she'd picked up on his, and if anything, his smug grin widened further. "He likes you back, you know." She shot him a pointedly skeptical look, ignoring the happy way her stomach flipped. She supposed it was possible…he did have a habit of looking at her in a funny, thoughtful sort of way that made her feel like she'd had one too many of Reem's Selonian ales; sort of warm and bubbly.

"Right. He'd have to peel his attention away from the X-wing and the rank they gave him in order for that to happen. He's much too preoccupied with being the hero of the Rebellion and you know it," she dismissed with as easy and uncaring a tone as she could muster while focusing intently on the scuffed toe of her left boot. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him shrug again, his hands falling to lace over his stomach as his crooked grin grew sly.

"C'mon, now, Tamara. You can't tell me you haven't thought about jumping the Kid. I've seen the way you look at him." She fought back the urge to glare at him, but didn't quite succeed.

Not when he wasn't entirely wrong…

"And it sounds like you've been exposed to too many fuel cell fumes." Han barked out a laugh at her.

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm not the only one to notice, sweetheart," he goaded, "You should hear some of his boys. A good chunk of those squad-mates of his have figured it out too. And," he added with an almost proudly smug look," they've noticed the pair of you have a habit of sneaking off at the same time." She couldn't help it. She tensed at the observation. But not for the same reason he obviously believed.

"We don't sneak off anywhere," she lied easily. As much as she'd come to like and trust Han, there were just some things too dangerous to share; her training with Luke in the ways of the Force counted easily among those things. But despite her carefully schooled features, he still seemed to see right through her.

"Right, he drawled skeptically, the sarcasm laid on thick. "For now, I'll pretend I believed that really convincing denial." She made a face at him and proceeded to call him several rather rude names in a handful of different languages, but internally she sighed in relief. She was only too happy that he seemed to have no immediate interest in prying into her secret meetings with Luke.

Even if his assumption was almost laughably wrong. Luke didn't like her that way…did he? She dismissed the thought. No, it was likely just something come out of a misinterpretation by Han and Luke's squad-mates thanks to the their secret training sessions…even if it was one that made her cheeks warm and her thoughts turn to inappropriate places.

The two of them fell into a companionable silence, Athara gazing at the next console over where the status readout on their current hyperspace jump displayed, her fingers fiddling absently with the controls beside her. Hopefully there would be something to find in the next system; she was getting tired of hopping around in search of a new, isolated base for the Alliance. Han, meanwhile, seemed to have fallen into a light doze where he reclined comfortably.

At least, until he broke the silence, his eyes slitting open and his crooked, roguish grin returning with a vengeance.

"You really don't see the way he gets around you?" he asked incredulously. Athara grit back a groan.

"You're worse than a gundark on a prowl and twice as dim, you know that?"

"I've got an idea," he stated definitively, ignoring her as his hands spread dramatically out in front of him, his gaze growing theatrically distant, "we take advantage of the rumours and go out." He bit back a laugh at her baffled glare. "It'd be one way to maybe kick the Kid into gear."

"Or not," she bit back scathingly. "It would involve going out with you, so I'd rather not."

"Why not," Han smirked, dropping and spreading his hands further in a gesture to match his words before pointing to himself. "I'm a charming sort of guy."

"In a charming, Hutt-thug sort of way." He raised a brow at her, visibly trying not to grin.

"Really, now. That's a little low, isn't it?"

"Well, you're too tall for me to aim high…not that there's much up there worth aiming at," she quipped back with a raised brow of her own. He grinned crookedly, his eyes lighting up at her playfully acid tone.

"Only seems that way 'cause you're not tall enough to see it," he countered. Athara couldn't help but smirk.

"But at least I don't have to worry about braining myself on doors…oh wait, I suppose you don't either, what with those fuel fumes rotting out your brain."

"You used that one already, sweetheart. Maybe you need to check your own ship for fume contamination. That hulking junk pile in the back there's probably leaking." Athara huffed out a scathing laugh.

"Junk pile? That's rich, coming from you. Your ship is literally famous for being a flying junk pile, you conceited grease-slinger."

"A  _fast_  flying junk pile, thank you," he said with exaggerated pride, "and at least I don't have to farm out the maintenance work on my ship; I actually know how she works and how to keep her going." Athara narrowed her eyes, smirking.

"How to keep her going, huh? And where's your far more talented co-pilot on this mission? Oh yeah, he's busy trying to get your ship space-worthy again." She leaned forward slightly, a wicked glint in her eye that had his expression turning faintly wary. "You know what? I'll pass him on the name of my guy. He'll set the poor  _Falcon_  to rights quick enough. Though, he might try and steal Chewie out from under you." She leaned back again, grinning smugly. "Madal does have an eye for skill, after all."

Han scowled and called her several wildly inappropriate names in a jumble of Huttese, Basic and Selonian.

Athara just sniggered and shot back a few of her own, more wildly creative insults as she suggested where he could put the phrasebook she was going to get him. He looked mildly impressed when she finished.

"You certainly have a way with words, Tamara," he snarked in response. "Natural poet, you are." She snorted.

"It's one of my greatest assets," she said dryly. He stretched slightly in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head again.

"Attractive too, I can see why—"

"You're an incorrigible, meat-headed, unimaginative freight jumper who just doesn't know when to quit," she cut him off with a stinging tone, "you know that?" He had the audacity to grin crookedly at her.

"One of these days, you're going to admit that I'm right," he stated smugly instead of summoning up a list of names to hurl right back. And all at once they were back on the original topic and Athara was once more beset but the irritating little hope that he might be onto something. Not to mention she was suddenly forced to try and banish some rather inappropriate thoughts about a certain sandy-haired Farmboy. She scowled, her eyes narrowing at Han and his absurd confidence that he was right.

"Switch off, Solo," she threw back without missing a beat, fighting the way her pulse was suddenly thrumming. It wasn't bloody likely…that she'd ever admit it aloud, at least…

Then a flicker in the Force had her head turning.

And the object of her thoughts that she'd been futilely trying to stop thinking about was standing in the doorway, watching at her in that easy, thoughtful sort of way that did funny things to her stomach.

Before she could help herself, she was smiling brightly at him.

And she could feel Han struggling not to laugh.

Damned smugglers…


	29. Questions and Theories

Well, that had been…that had been something. Orran wasn't even entirely sure how to process it just at this moment. But one thing he was sure of?

His niece had survived where his sister had not.

And she was now in the custody of the Alliance. Indefinitely. Oh, it had been agreed that after she had fulfilled her end of the bargain that had been struck, she'd be set free, but even as absolutely stunned and dazed as he was over the revelation of the Dark Lady Obscura's true identity—she was Neva's daughter! Her  _daughter_!—Orran Adyé knew better. Athara would be lucky to ever be freed. Even if she were to serve up the Emperor on a silver platter.

All because of a few of his comrades and their irrational conviction that her former affiliations made her irredeemably evil. If there was one thing Orran had come to learn in the long, hard years since the Empire had been formed, it was that no one was irredeemably evil just as no one was pristinely good.

Save perhaps the Emperor. And Tarkin, while he'd still been alive. They were likely wholly irredeemable.

And Darth Vader? Well, it wouldn't be politic to admit it, but given what he had heard back in the Council room? Orran couldn't help a tiny flicker of doubt.

But there were those, like General Draven, who had latched onto the idea that those in the Emperor's inner circles, including Athara thanks to her proximity to Vader—years ago, now, Orran realized with a jolt—were anything but redeemable.

Orran couldn't think like that. He was Nabooian. They believed in an inherent good in all. Save a select few who had proven themselves unworthy, of course…

His thoughts were interrupted then, and he was not at all pleased to recognize the voice calling out to get his attention.

"So. You and Obscura share a last name." Orran bristled at Draven's comment, turning back to the Intelligence Officer. The General stood with his arms crossed, staring intently, even accusingly, at the Nabooian Officer.

"I believe she made it clear that she doesn't like that name," Orran said calmly back, deflecting the question. He had no interest in sharing his family history with the man. What was Draven expecting him to say, anyway? Naturally, Draven ignored the comment.

"It is curious, isn't it," he said, his tone nearly theatrical even as it was patronizing. Orran took a step toward Draven, his temper beginning to rise. The General merely sneered. But Orran didn't back down, meeting the other man's resolved gaze head on.

"Do you have something to say, Draven?"

"I don't know. Do you?" A sneer of his own threatened at his colleague's tone, Orran's self-control quickly becoming strained.

"Gentlemen?" They both turned at the mild, knowing voice of their Leader. Mon Mothma looked between the two of them, her gaze thoughtful and measuring. "Is this really the appropriate place?" Orran's eyes dropped from the mildly admonishing gaze of hers. Draven too had the sense to look abashed, though his features had grown slightly pinched. With a graceful gesture, Mon Mothma motioned them on to the meeting room just on down the corridor. Reluctantly, on both their parts Orran noticed with a grim sort of amusement, both men complied. No sooner had the door slid shut behind them than Mon Mothma had fixed both of them with a penetrating look.

"Now," she said softly, her tone faintly hard with displeasure as she took a seat at the ovoid table, "would either of you care to explain to me why two of my high-ranking council members were at each other's throats?" Orran breathed in deeply, further reining back his temper even as he was carefully formulating what to say in response; old habits die hard. Draven, however held no such compunctions. He straightened, his expression bordering on defiant as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"As head of the Alliances' Intelligence division, it is my job to gather intelligence that could provide us with any advantage we can get as well as to ensure to our security. Unfortunately, Commander Adyé, here, has little interest in cooperating." Orran nearly scoffed at the level of self-importance Draven was demonstrating. How the man's ego remained so inflated considering how many times he had been reprimanded by Alliance leadership was beyond him. But he had better self-control than that. Mostly. Draven caught sight of his poorly hidden aggravation.

"You have something to say, Commander Adyé? I take my duty very seriously."

"Oh, I know you do," Orran said, unable to entirely hide the scathing thread to his projected deference. Out of the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw Mon Mothma subtly concealing a grin.

"Orran," Mon Mothma admonished gently, causing both men to glance to her. She spared both a pointed look before turning to Draven. "Just what was it you were hoping to learn?" Draven's eyes glinted, and Orran bit back yet another scathing comment. Though Draven's lips were still pressed together in a stern line, the man was practically smirking. He straightened further.

"His connection to Obscura." At the declaration Orran was once again bristling, his jaw clenching lest he snap at the General again. "Surely," Draven continued, "it cannot have escaped your notice, Ma'am, that they share a rather uncommon family name unique to Naboo."

'How presumptuous of you," Orran couldn't resist muttering…not that the man was wrong…it was the principle. Mon Mothma shot him another of her effective admonishing looks, but she did level Draven with a look that quickly had the General hesitating.

"He does have a point, Davits," she said. "A shared last name does not automatically make him complicit with her." This time it was Draven bristling.

"Ma'am, I made no such assumption," he objected, only for his mouth to snap shut as Mon Mothma's brow rose in silent challenge. She was not stupid, their leader, and after so many years, she knew Draven too well. But then the General was recovering, the look he leveled on Orran just barely short of an outright glare before he looked back to the former Senator.

"Ma'am, his unexplained sympathy toward Obscura cannot have gone unnoticed by the rest of the council," Draven declared hotly, gesturing toward Orran. He straightened, his own temper once again rising. The presumptuous, suspicious, conceited, arrogant—

"And he was not the only one, General," Mon Mothma said, her tone far more sharp than Orran had ever heard. "I myself am convinced of the truth in her story and the merits of her continued presence. Indeed, the value of her knowledge is not something we can easily dismiss. Do you consider me to be complicit with the Empire because of it?" Draven flinched, shame-faced for a split-second, though his eyes still glinted angrily. But he recovered quickly enough.

"Of course not, Ma'am," he acknowledged, his voice only nominally contrite thanks to the bitterness that lingered, "but sharing a family name with the Dark Lady Obscur—"

"That is not her name," Orran snapped, the words out of his mouth before he'd even realized they were there on his tongue. Draven's eyes flashed as he rounded on Orran.

"You refuse to answer simple questions on your relationship to a top-level Imperial agent and yet you insist on defending her. And you wonder why that causes doubt?"

"Draven," Mon Mothma cut in crossly, but the General paid her no notice.

"Is my loyalty in question," Orran demanded, growing more irate himself by the insinuation. "Because if it is, stop beating around the bush and say it, Davits!"

"Perhaps it is," Draven sneered back. "Why else would you side with Vader's lackey over the Alliance unless you were in league with her?"

"I didn't even know her real name until today; I've never even spoken to the girl."

"Then why would you defend her, Adyé?"

"Because she's my niece, Draven," Orran finally blurted out in a fit of frustration. Draven and Mon Mothma froze, both looking to him in astonishment. The former Senator was the first to recover.

"Your niece?" she asked, the faintest of wavers in her voice the only indication of how shaken she was by his declaration. Orran nodded, his temper cooling in the face of his lingering heartache at thinking of his sister rising in his chest.

"My sister Neva—you may have known her, Ma'am; she was Senator Padmé Amidala's Aide when the Republic fell." Mothma nodded absently, recognition flickering briefly across her face. "She came back to Naboo a little over a standard year and a half after her disappearance following Amidala's funeral. She had a newborn daughter with her…named Athara."

Draven had the nerve to scoff. "And you think Obscura is that baby?" Orran fixed him with a hard look.

"Yes," he bit back with obvious aggravation. Mon Mothma held up a placating hand.

"How can you be sure," she asked, not unkindly. Orran sighed, his sorrow fighting with his anger at Draven, who was still staring at the Nabooian with narrowed eyes.

"It all fits. Neva was allegedly killed by a Jedi, but everyone on Naboo knew Vader was the true culprit responsible for her death. Our family all believed Athara killed too, but…" he hesitated, looking to the Alliance's Leader, "…but if she was Force-sensitive? It stands to reason that Vader might take her. Force-users were rare enough before the Jedi were wiped out; she'd be a tempting pawn for him or the Emperor." Draven made an unsatisfied sound, his face broadcasting his skepticism.

"Circumstantial reasoning at best," he dismissed. "We have no way of—"

"I recognize her," Orran interrupted conclusively, his tone brooking no argument. "She looks uncannily like my sister," inadvertently he smiled as his thoughts turned toward memory, "and she has the same spirit Neva did when she was angry." Mon Mothma couldn't seem to help the smile that came to her face at the admission.

But Draven wasn't convinced, determined, it seemed, to test Orran's certainty by picking apart his words.

"How could you know it was Vader who killed your sister?" the General challenged cynically. Orran scoffed.

"The Empire claimed it was Obi-wan Kenobi who killed her. Completely ridiculous. There was no way. Certainly no one on Naboo believed it, though it's never said aloud. Many of my people believe the Jedi were incapable of doing the things the Empire claims they did. Even those who have known nothing save the Emperor's rule are not taken in by his propaganda. And certainly nothing the Empire said about Kenobi was believed. He's a hero to us, and that will never change. We still remember what he and his Master Qui-gon Jinn and his apprentice Anakin Skywalker did for our people during the Trade Federation Invasion when I was a child. We are indebted to him. My people still love him." A faint frown marred the Chandrilian's brow as a thought struck her. She looked thoughtfully up to Orran.

"But why Kenobi?" Orran frowned in return until she clarified. "Why would the Empire claim it was Kenobi specifically who killed her?" Orran shrugged.

"Perhaps because of his status as a hero on Naboo? Trying to turn popular opinion against him and the Jedi by claiming he was the one to kill a formerly elected Queen? It can't have been a secret that our planet—Palpatine's planet—hadn't turned so decisively against the Jedi as the rest of the Galaxy had…not that it worked, if that was the intent.

"Besides," Orran added, "he was one of the most prominent Jedi of the day, if not the most prominent one left unaccounted for after the Jedi Purge, and he just vanished. It's rumoured that Darth Vader had it out for him in particular. Perhaps they believed him hiding on Naboo because of his status there and they hoped it might flush him out." Mon Mothma nodded thoughtfully, her hand rising so a curled finger could tap lightly against her lips. Draven, on the other hand, looked incredulous.

"Ma'am, really. This is not the issue at hand." But the Alliance's leader paid him little mind, looking back to Orran.

"It is a logical explanation," she mused softly, "but not the only one…" she trailed off, but then another thought seemed to hit her. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but Kenobi was a dear friend of Senator Amidala, was he not?" Not entirely following, Orran nodded. That had been well known both on and off Naboo; they had fought together to liberate Orran's Homeplanet and their names had commonly been connected during the course of the Clone Wars until Amidala's death and Kenobi's disappearance. Off to the side, Draven scoffed, his features nearly petulant and he gave up trying to redirect the conversation.

"And did your sister also know Kenobi?" Mon Mothma continued. Orran paused, fixing the Alliance's leader with a sharp look. What was she implying…

"Yes," he admitted hesitantly after a conflicted moment of thought, "she worked with him during the Clone Wars when he was on a mission to Naboo, right before she was elected Queen. He also saved her life during an assassination attempt when she won. It's another reason the claim that he was the one to kill her is so ridiculous." Mon Mothma leveled him with a searching look.

"Were they close?" Orran frowned, bewildered. Surely she wasn't suggesting…

"She always spoke very highly of him," he murmured almost automatically, his mind spinning, examining every time he could recall Neva mentioning the Jedi. She'd always seemed rather fond of Kenobi, yet she had always insisted they were no more than acquaintances whenever anyone in their family, Orran included, had teased her on what they perceived to be her infatuation with the famous Jedi.

Though, in retrospect, perhaps she had insisted just a little too strongly…

"Is it possible?" the Chandrilian pressed gently. It was asked so quietly he nearly didn't hear her over the ambient noises of the busy ship around them or the volume of his own thoughts. It couldn't be, could it? It was well known that the Jedi foreswore attachments like that…and yet…many people believed Luke Skywalker could be Anakin Skywalker's son; why couldn't Kenobi have sired a child as well? Mon Mothma was looking at him like she already read the answer on his face. She knew he'd caught on to where her own train of thought had gone. This woman was not one of the greatest politicians and leaders in the Galaxy without reason.

He sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose as he thought it over.

The truth of the matter was he just didn't know…but it was indeed possible.

"She refused to tell us about her husband—though I distinctly remember her calling him as much; I was fifteen at the time. She insisted it was for his protection as well as hers and her daughter's that she keep his identity from us. 'Ben' was the only name we got. Nothing else. No more clues. Nothing. That alone…" The older woman frowned, looking thoughtful.

"Commander Skywalker refers to Master Kenobi as 'Ben' in conversation," she murmured thoughtfully. Orran started. He hadn't known that. She looked back to Orran, her expression sympathetic. "It would make some of the more murky details of your theory far clearer if Kenobi and your sister's 'Ben' were on and the same," she said gently. Slowly Orran nodded, still trying to reconcile the idea with the already astonishing realizations he'd been confronted with about Vader's shadow.

"It's not a theory," he objected automatically, barely even realizing he'd said it. The more he thought about it, the more plausible and even probable it seemed. The more logical it seemed.

In those weeks before the Election all those years ago, every time he and his family had spoken to Neva, her face had always lit up in the most curious way whenever she'd spoken of Kenobi; his parents had always exchanged sad, knowing looks when the communications ended that he hadn't understood then. And after she'd been injured and he'd left Naboo? Even after she'd gone to Coruscant with Senator Amidala? That light had faded, his sister instead carrying a trace of sadness with her instead. Orran had barely noticed it then, but he remembered hearing his parents talking about it when they thought they were alone.

But when Neva had appeared at their door—months after disappearing without a word or a trace once the Empire had formed and Amidala had been buried—with a newborn daughter in her arms?

The light had been back.

Could she have really been in love with—married to?!—Obi-wan Kenobi?

His head was beginning to ache.

To say nothing of his heart.

And as he met Mon Mothma's eye, he knew he didn't need to say a word.

She understood.


	30. When Master Meets Apprentice

Part I

This? This was nothing like accompanying her Master on official Imperial business the first time. The nerves she had experienced that day had absolutely nothing on the strength of the nerves currently gripping her. They felt like cold, sharp bands clenching tight against her lungs and around her belly, shivering and quivering like a wound spring. Ready at any moment to snap free.

More than that, though she very much did not want to admit it, she was scared. And she couldn’t even seem to turn it to something she could use as her Master had taught her.

But then, she supposed any reasonable, intelligent person would be scared of the prospect of being brought before Emperor Palpatine himself.

Athara had grown up learning about the Empire and the Emperor; her Master’s Master. And growing up, Vader had always spoken of Palpatine with great deference and respect. But he had also made absolutely certain that he she understood just how powerful and slippery the Emperor was. That he was cunning and ruthless and manipulative.

That he was dangerous.

Especially to her.

For all that he was her Master’s Master, Vader had made it very clear right from the beginning that he did not trust her safety where his Master was concerned. That he would not be able to protect her should the Emperor decide she was a threat to him.

And so once her most basic of lessons in tapping into and starting to harness her not insignificant Force-ability had been conquered, he had immediately turned his focus to ensuring she knew how to shield herself within the Force: her thoughts, her mind, her strength with the Force and even her presence.

All with the aim of being able to keep the scope of her potential from the Emperor.

It was something she hadn’t understood in the slightest when he’d first started teaching her to safeguard her mind with the Force. Why should she have to protect herself from her Master’s Master. Wasn’t it her Master’s job—and someday hers—to protect the Emperor? Weren’t they supposed to be loyal to Palpatine? But as time passed, she was beginning to think she might be coming to understand.

Her biggest problem in understanding her Master’s reasons came first and foremost from her relationship with him. She trusted her Master. She _knew_ without a shadow of a doubt that he cared deeply for her in his own way. And she _knew_ that he would never even dream of hurting her. So how could he view his own Master with such suspicion and mistrust? Surely he should trust his own Master as she trusted him, right?

But she had long since put together that it was not that simple.

The Emperor demanded absolute and unwavering loyalty, but as Athara grew wiser to the ways of the Galaxy, she was coming to see that while he demanded it, he did not always return it.

And he tested that loyalty. Harshly. Vader had told her of occasions where he’d witnessed the Emperor purposefully shattering the mind of one of his Admirals with the Force upon concluding from thoughts gleaned from the man that his failure in a military engagement had just as much to do with his lack of complete devotion to the Empire as his incompetence; it wasn’t that simple, of course, but that was how the Emperor had twisted it. He was brutal, and utterly merciless when faced with what he perceived as a threat. And Palpatine saw a great many things as threats.

Even strength within his own subordinates.

_Because while the Emperor values and respects strength, he also will not hesitate to destroy it should it pose a threat to his own_. The words echoed through her thoughts in her Master’s voice. She still wasn’t entirely sure she understood, but the very idea nevertheless sent a chill of apprehension up her spine. There had been no masking the absolute sincerity in her Master’s tone when he had said those words. There had been no way she could possibly doubt that her Master had meant every word. Especially not given what he had said next.

_Should he sense your potential, he will kill you._

Not take her and train her as one of his rumoured ‘Hands.’ Not to try and turn her from Vader. Not to use her. Not to gauge her potential value to him.

Kill her.

And she’d gotten the inarguable sense deep in her gut that her Master had been in deadly earnest.

As he had drilled into her head almost since the first time he’d sat her down to explain the threat Palpatine posed to her, even allowing one slip of her defenses in the Emperor’s presence would be a risk to her very life.

Athara couldn’t help the shudder that went through her at the reminder.

And Vader was even now bringing her before him.

He had held off bringing her before his Master until he’d been absolutely certain her mental defenses were perfect. That she could keep the depth of her Force ability carefully hidden along with the most sensitive of her thoughts, keeping them invisible to the inevitable probing the Emperor was undoubtedly going to indulge in whether he believed there was cause or not. So far as the Emperor was to know, she could touch the Force and use it, but only in a minimal, most basic way.

That she was not a threat to him. That her value outweighed any potential risk.

Her Master had been very clear on that. So much so, that, for the first time in her young life, Athara had very nearly feared her Master, his intensity had been so overwhelming to her senses.

Hence her currently spiralling levels of fear and anxiety.

But her Master didn’t seem in the least aware of her inner turmoil. Which was both good and bad. Good because it meant she was doing very well in maintaining her mental protections, and that was immensely reassuring.

Bad because she could’ve used the warning hand on her shoulder to help her concentrate; she’d always found the gesture somewhat more comforting than admonishing as she had a feeling it was intended to be. And just now, even a modicum of reassurance would help.

Especially since, now that they were approaching the Imperial Palace, she was fairly sure she could sense oppressive weight of the Emperor’s presence already. Dark and heavy and more malicious than anything she had sensed in her life up till now. It sent a chill up her spine, the icy grip of her nerves tightening further. How could the sheer scope of the Darkness she sensed be anything else? She had to force herself not to swallow hard in terror. Sensing Palpatine’s presence made it _real_. It was no longer just words to frighten her.

She was in real, genuine danger, her instincts screaming at her to run and run far.

If she failed, she would die.

It was then that the hand part of her had been longing to feel descended heavily on her shoulder.

And some of the fear began to ease.

Her Master would be beside her, and though he had stated explicitly that he could not help her, his presence was enough. A small, childish part of her insisted on the conviction that he wouldn’t let any harm befall her. Not even at his own Master’s hand.

Deep in her gut, she _knew_ it was the truth.

Vader would protect her.

Reassured, she forced her focus to the Palace itself. And the sheer scale of the building ahead did a credible job as a distraction.

The Emperor’s Palace was massive and imposing—a dark, gleaming durasteel and opalescent jet transparesteel edifice that towered over the cityscape around it. It was so large, that the speeders and ships on the trafficways surrounding it glittered like tiny jewels in comparison. It was so much more monumental in person than any holo Athara has ever seen; not one had done it justice.

But at the same time, Athara couldn’t help but think to herself, it was not nearly so imposing or impressive as her Master’s Fortress, bigger though it was. Or at least, that was how it seemed to her; very little could compare to the harsh, stark simplicity of the onyx structure standing tall and intimidating above the red-hot glow of the lava waterfall cascading over the sheer cliff-face at its base.

It did a little to calm her nerves.

Not that it lessened the impact of the awe-inspiring building in the slightest.

And inside it was just as impactful in its opulence as the outside was with its imposing size.

There was no doubt who reigned here.

And once more Athara was only just restraining herself from trembling in fear.

Yet, even as her Master’s hand lifted from her shoulder and they disembarked from the shuttle into the heart of the Palace, it wasn’t quite so overwhelming as before, a faint, reassuring warmth having taken up residence in her chest.

And so she followed her Master deeper into the Emperor’s Palace, doubling down on her mental defenses as best she could, trying to harness her fear as he had taught her.

So intent was she on what nearly felt like a futile task, that she very nearly collided with her Master’s back as he slowed. Just ahead a large set of doors was grinding shut. And on the other side? Athara swallowed fearfully. She could _feel_ him. Waiting. She felt like a mooka pup about to step into a cage with a nexu.

Only to be distracted from her once again spiraling fear by the approach of the figure who had stepped out of the doors from the Emperor’s presence and was even now approaching her Master.

Tall, thin and gaunt, Athara didn’t need an introduction to know who he was. Really, as she looked up at him from behind her Master she had the thought that, even had she never seen a holo of the man, she would’ve known who he was.

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin.

Who was currently glancing at her in disdain and even distaste before turning a bland sneer to her Master. Athara didn’t know whether to cringe away from the foul-feeling man or bristle at his casual dismissal of her.

“Odd company you keep, Lord Vader,” he drawled, sounding bored and condescending all at once, “unless this is the so-called apprentice you’ve been keeping. I daresay, I’d rather begun to wonder at her existence.” He sounded so patronizing, Athara had the childish urge to kick him in the shins. But she dutifully kept the thought and the impulse to herself. It wouldn’t do to literally kick the Emperor’s favourite just before going in to meet him…satisfying as she suspected it would be.

Athara could feel her Master’s temper beginning to smolder. “As she is here before you, I trust you will know to take me at my word, next time,” Vader said back to the Grand Moff without missing a beat, his voice as clipped as his vocorder would allow. Tarkin’s sneer twisted further. And Athara was tempted to grin at how displeased she could sense the brusque comment had left the Grand Moff.

With a brisk, minute nod, Tarkin didn’t respond before striding past her Master, sending Athara one of the most condescending looks she had ever encountered. Even the disdain she had sensed from Boba Fett paled in comparison to what she sensed in that moment from the man walking past them and away from her and her Master. Her temper flared and before she could stop herself, the Force was stirring around her and she reached out.

And at the far end of the corridor, Tarkin stumbled, nearly toppling forward as a phantom edge caught the toe of his boot.

Satisfaction hummed happily in Athara’s chest as she felt indignation and fury flash within the Grand Moff at the indignity of his near accident.

Only for it to fade minutely as she felt her Master’s consciousness brush admonishing against her own. Looking up, she nearly flinched away from the stern look she could feel more than see coming from behind her Master’s mask. After a moment, he turned back toward the door before them, striding forward toward it. Chastened, Athara followed close behind, apprehension seeping back in as they left the scene of her little bit of retribution behind.

Ahead, the massive doors to the Emperor’s Throne Room eased open and Vader stepped confidently through, not allowing Athara even a moment’s hesitation to follow dutifully. Or to consider turning and running  

And then her throat closed and her mouth went dry as it seemed like all the moisture had been drawn to her suddenly clammy-feeling skin.

The room was vast, dim and cavernous and, unlike the rest of the Palace, virtually unadorned. It was intimidating in its stark emptiness, leaving only one natural focal point.

The cloaked figure sitting on his throne at the far end of the chamber.

Emperor Palpatine.

But she didn’t have time to let her panic to regain its grip as she was hard pressed to keep pace with her Master’s long strides without looking like she was struggling to keep up.

And then she was sinking to her knee just behind and to the side of her Master as he sank to his own knee, his menacing mask dipping low in submission. Not that it kept her from staring at the focus of her anxiety the last few weeks.

At a glance alone, there was little that seemed overtly threatening; a frail old man with thin, papery wrinkles on the pale skin hidden beneath a simple black cloak. But then she looked closer. Cruel, reptilian yellow eyes limned with red stared out from beneath his hood, their gaze sharp as they took on Athara and her Master. There was nothing frail or benign about this man. A thick, choking Darkness emanated off him in waves, roiling and grasping, trying to seep into her thoughts, into her mind—her soul, it even felt like—needling and slipping and coolly sly inside her head so subtly she nearly didn’t feel it.

“I have done as you requested, my Master,” her Master intoned next to her. The probing tendrils subsided.

“So you have,” he said, the faintest trace of amusement in his oily voice. If his presence alone hadn’t been enough to have every hair on Athara’s body standing on end, the sly chill of the Emperor’s voice would have certainly done it. “And how does her training progress?” He gestured for Vader and Athara both to rise.

“As well as can be expected,” her Master said as he straightened. A small, huffing sound that had Athara wondering if the Emperor was amused followed her Master’s response. It rubbed her the wrong way, and she found her temper beginning to spark. She grabbed hold of the feeling, using it to centre herself.

“She trails after you like a shadow, Lord Vader, but does the Little Shadow have a voice? Tell me, how do you like my Capitol, child?” She fought the urge to narrow her eyes at him, but obeyed at his subtle gesture to step closer. She had nearly expected him to be as patronizing as Tarkin toward her. Instead he seemed…mildly intrigued. Like she was a curiosity that had the potential to be more interesting, not that he truly expected it.

But still with a condescending cast.

“There are a lot of ships,” She said peevishly. She sensed a flash of amusement from her Master at her almost dry answer. The Emperor chuckled, the oily sound feeling like insects were crawling across her skin. His grin was equally unsettling, his expression considering and shrewd.

“She is a spirited thing, Lord Vader, and clever, unless I’m very much mistaken,” he crooned, his yellow eyes glinting sharply. Cruelly. He turned back to her Master. “Good. You chose your pupil well. It is a pity her potential is not greater. Even despite the disadvantage, she might make a promising addition to my personal collection of agents.” Athara fought to keep her distaste and fear at the idea to herself. But the Emperor was not fooled, chuckling again as he looked back to her. The sound was dry and scratching just as it was oily; a contradiction that made her head ache.

“You would prefer to stay with your Master?” he asked, his use of her honorific for his apprentice almost mocking as the trace of a sneer twisted his mouth. Any number of responses sprang to mind, from scathing to groveling in tone, but she chose instead to keep her mouth shut.

Not that she was quite sure her voice would’ve been steady had she chosen to speak, anyway…

“Naturally,” he continued, derision threading into his overly pleasant tone. “An apprentice is always inclined to give their loyalty to their first Master.” But he wasn’t looking at her as he said it. He was looking pointedly to Vader. And Vader slowly dipped his head forward in acknowledgement. And Athara understood, fear stinging in her chest.

It was a threat.

It took a great deal of self-restraint not to cross her arms and scowl up at him. But she let the anger the comment drew flare, preferring it to the paralyzing fear that threatened. It made her feel stronger, and just now? She knew she needed whatever strength she could manage.

But yet again, Palpatine picked up on her flash of temper. Only this time, he seemed to find it far less amusing. He leaned forward, the full weight of his piercing regard fixed wholly on her.

“You may be _loyal_ —” again the word was nearly scathing “—to _my_ apprentice, but do not forget, young Athara Adyé, that you serve _my_ Empire.” A bone deep shiver of fear went through her at the sneering, ice-cold menace in his formerly silky voice; it had grown sharp enough, she suspected it could draw blood.

His meaning was clear: he _knew_ her devotion was reserved first and foremost for her Master, and that he knew it. He was going to be watching her very closely, watching, waiting for even the slightest hint of treachery, from her or her Master. And should he even suspect her loyalty to the Empire was in question?

She would die.

She didn’t even realize she was trembling—though out of terror or a sudden white-hot rage of self-preservation, she was uncertain—until her Master’s hand landed, heavy and comforting, on her shoulder. And she could swear he was silently urging her to stay silent. It was only then that she realized she hadn’t just been shaking, but that she had been on the verge of snapping back at the Emperor’s promise. It was a wordless warning she took to heart, and her mouth snapped shut.

“Yes, My Master,” Vader intoned deferentially behind her. And Athara could _feel_ the sincerity pouring off him.

Accompanied by something else…something fleeting. Something that flickered across her perceptions so fast she wasn’t sure she’d sensed it at all.

Resentment.

It took every ounce of willpower she had to keep her flash of astonishment to herself.

But then it was gone, leaving only a tangible sense of resolve and the unwavering loyalty her Master had given wholeheartedly to his Master.

It was enough to satisfy the Emperor. And Athara was hard-pressed to keep her relief safely hidden behind her mental shields as the oppressive weight of Palpatine’s presence eased. The Emperor leaned back in his throne, looking thoughtfully down at the both of them.

“We shall need to come up with a suitable name for your pupil, Lord Vader,” he finally said, a twisting parody of amusement crossing the Emperor’s pasty features. “Something appropriate to her status as your future right hand, should you still wish her to fulfill that role.” Athara felt Vader nod behind her, her attention still fixed on the Emperor. Her gut twisted uncomfortably as he pondered, a knobby finger tapping absently on the dull finish of his armrest.  

“Ah…I have it,” he finally said softly, a pleased, sly grin crinkling his papery features. A different sort of weight felt like it was descending on her shoulders, as though ensuring the significance of the Emperor’s impending declaration would not be lost. Her stomach twisted once more. The Emperor’s smile widened at her unease, pleased.

“You, Little Shadow, shall be known as Obscura.”


	31. When Master Meets Apprentice

Part II

She was finally ready. But that didn't lessen the writhing, clenching terror in his gut in the slightest. It prickled over his skin; itching, phantom sensations that travelled right down to the tips of his fingers, ghosting over flesh that no longer existed.

He knew she was ready without a doubt. When he tested her mind, no amount of brute force nor sly tendrils of mental focus could breach the barriers he'd taught her to create. He couldn't even find them within her mind, anymore. Not even when he took her by surprise. And he knew they were there. If she chose to hide a memory from him, she doubted he would be able to find it. And when he tried to get a measure of her potential now? It was virtually second nature to her to hide it now. As it needed to be.

Yes. She was ready. Her defenses were strong and clever. More clever than he suspected he'd be capable of himself. Certainly far more subtle.

Hopefully subtle enough to fool his Master.

Palpatine would see what he expected to see. Of that Vader was certain.

Or, as certain as he could be.

Against all effort, he couldn't help but doubt. Should the Emperor choose to dig deeper?

Athara was good, but she would still be no match for the Emperor. Not yet. She was still a child, and though he'd left her to defend her own mind and presence for years already, the Emperor was far craftier and more cunning than he was. He was sly and ruthless and subtle.

Palpatine's talents lay in manipulating the mind; it was how he had orchestrated and schemed and influenced his way to tearing the old order down and replacing it with one of his own design. It was because of his unchallenged skill in knowing and controlling the minds around him that he was now the supreme head of the Galaxy. The Emperor. He was far, far more skilled and cunning at slipping his way into others minds than Vader could ever hope to be, skilled as he knew he had become. It felt a very near thing, some days, when it came to shielding his own traitorous thoughts from his Master, after all. And the Emperor was ruthless even on his most valued and trusted servant.

So naturally, he feared he hadn't done enough.

But what else could he do?

Much as he might be tempted to shield Athara himself, he knew were Palpatine to sense even the faintest trace of Vader's presence in his little apprentice's mind, he would grow suspicious. And if that were to happen? The deception Vader had been weaving for years would unravel with devastating consequences.

The brunt of which would be borne by his precious apprentice.

In a flash of foresight and manipulative instinct that would do Palpatine proud, Vader had set his mind to laying the groundwork for this very meeting almost since he'd found Athara years before. Since before he had even told Palpatine that he'd found her.

Spinning his Master a tale of coming across a young Force-sensitive child on Nubia—not terrible powerful, mind, but with enough potential and spirit to serve a purpose to Vader. Under the guise of full disclosure and unwavering deference to his Master, he'd admitted to feeling it prudent to take the child on as a project, molding an agent of his own with the ability to touch the Force even if she wasn't so powerful as to truly wield it as he or any remaining Jedi could. He'd even confessed that he wanted to do so, using the truth to fuel his lies.

And Palpatine had been amused by the idea of a little so-called 'apprentice' for Vader and intrigued by the idea of an agent trained under Vader's own considerable knowledge.

So with his Master's tacit approval, Vader had collected Athara and hidden her away both on Mustafar and within his expansive quarters aboard the  _Devastator_  to begin her training. And Vader had continued to feed his deception for years, venting impatience with the limits to her power and sharing his satisfaction when she proved herself clever and ruthless and proficient in the other lessons he provided just as he'd kept his Master appraised of his 'pet's' progress in general—slow when it came to the Force as it undoubtedly would've been had Athara not possessed the natural strength as she did.

It was a clever and underhanded long-game, if Vader said so himself. It surely would have done Palpatine proud…would he not be furious at Vader for the betrayal of considering orchestrating such a ruse in the first place, of course.

But now Palpatine's patience had reached its limit and his interest in seeing the girl for himself could no longer be deferred. He had known that the day would come when he couldn't hold his Master off anymore, but that didn't mean he was any less apprehensive. He'd delayed as long as he thought wise, making excuses that he wished to ensure the girl was properly prepared—which was true, after a fashion—so as not to embarrass him.

Something, in truth, that Vader rather doubted she was capable of. Not that he'd say it in as many words; overconfidence was a weakness he was well familiar with, and he knew she had a good head as she was, always striving for his approval, making herself stronger as a result. She was clever, quick to learn and almost as stubborn as he had been when he was young. Jealousy flared, sharp and stinging in his chest, but Vader forced it away, irritated.

She was a credit to his tutelage, he thought with pride.

And one day, perhaps, she would help him see Palpatine and his manipulative, corrupt ways destroyed. Then, perhaps, together he and his young apprentice could truly fix the Galaxy, clearing away the impotent, self-serving, festering bureaucracy that was rotting out the Empire from the core. They could bring true change. True, iron-fisted justice to a Galaxy long bereft of strong, decisive leadership.

But first, Athara needed to survive her first venture into his Master's presence. The Darkness in him quivered in anticipation of deceiving Palpatine, whose promises had been hollow and little better than lies. He could see that now. He might owe his loyalty to Palpatine for all that the Sith Lord had done in raising him up and opening his eyes to the follies of the Jedi, in setting him on his true path, but he was no longer blinded by that devotion. The veil had fallen away. And he wasn't even sure Palpatine had realized it yet. That he was no longer the sole owner of Vader's allegiance.

No, his loyalty belonged to his apprentice now, as well. And it was a bond that was undoubtedly stronger. For as Vader was loyal to her, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was unerringly loyal to him. She belonged to Vader in a way Palpatine had always intended Vader to belong to him.

Palpatine was loyal only to himself.

It was a truth Vader had long been privy to. Rage simmered, hot and potent, in the back of his mind at the reminder. Not only that, Palpatine had cost him as much as he'd given him, and Vader would have his vengeance for that.

Embracing it, he used it to flush away the infection of his doubt, burning out his uncertainty that his apprentice would fail.

And it seared away his fear that Palpatine would see through her.

No, she would make it through this. She was strong and determined, his apprentice. She knew the stakes and she had mastered her fear, wrestling it under control.

Oddly enough, encountering Tarkin had reassured him. The abrasive, oily Grand Moff had sparked his young apprentice's temper and her nerve had strengthened whether she'd realized it or not, the hair-thin cracks in her defenses sealing tight and disappearing entirely.

Never had he thought he'd be grateful to an unexpected encounter with Wilhuff Tarkin.

There was a first time for everything, he supposed.

And now she was before his Master, still kneeling at his side, her fear now mingling with stirrings of her temper as Palpatine needled her both with words and the Force. The Darkness within him seemed to nearly snicker in appreciation of her insolence toward his Master, pleased at the annoyance he could sense in Palpatine. It was something he appreciated himself. His little girl was not one to be easily restrained by her fear and that pleased him.

More importantly, Palpatine seemed satisfied with what he was seeing in Athara.

Even if she was verging on trying his patience.

But then words fell from Palpatine's smirking lips that sent a bolt of shock and terror straight through Vader.

"She might make a promising addition to my personal collection of agents."

Vader only barely managed to keep his reaction to himself. Athara didn't appear to notice in her preoccupation with Palpatine. But his Master…

Palpatine's sharp eyes flicked briefly to him, the corner of his lip twitching. Palpatine had sensed it.

And the dread pooling in Vader's gut intensified and congealed into a hard, noxious lump.

His Master now  _knew_  just how much Athara had come to mean to him.

What had he just done…

Palpatine turned his attention back to Athara, who was fighting her own surge of fear at the absent comment, chuckling as he did. He was enjoying himself. A chill ran up Vader's spine.

"You would prefer to stay with your Master?" Vader fought not to bristle at his Master's derisive tone, wrestling against his slowly building rage.  _He would_ dare _take Athara from him_ , the Darkness in his chest bellowed furiously, a hair-trigger from pushing him to challenge Palpatine, to neutralize the threat to his apprentice.

But he quashed the impulse back, knowing he wouldn't stand a chance against Palpatine. Not anymore.

Not yet.

And Palpatine would kill Athara, just to make a point.

So he redirected the emotion, using it to fuel his own carefully maintained mental shields; that was one weakness of his he knew he could combat, the one weakness he knew that day on Naboo he would absolutely have to eradicate if he was to have any hope of achieving his plans. And with a great deal of work, in that he had succeeded.

It was one feat he knew Palpatine was none the wiser for. And he intended to keep it that way. It was his best hope of protecting his Apprentice. For now.

So he let his irritation simmer on the surface of his mind, refusing to react as Palpatine's probing consciousness skimmed through it with satisfaction.

"Naturally," his Master crooned, his expression bordering on a sneer, "an apprentice is always inclined to give their loyalty to their first Master." As he spoke, Palpatine's sharp gaze once again fixed on Vader.

And Vader's control nearly faltered. It suddenly felt like cold, sharp fingers had closed like a vice around his gut, the feeling so strong it bled through his careful control. Palpatine suspected…no…his feelings quivered at the very idea.

No, Palpatine  _knew_  who Athara's father was.

His rage now warred against his fear's icy grip. Fury at himself as he realized his mistake. And it felt like a punch in the gut.

She'd still been Athara  _Adyé_  on Nubia.

He'd forgotten the length of Palpatine's reach. He'd foolishly thought it would be enough to keep her family name from his Master… Palpatine's cruel gaze glinted with satisfaction that him subtle message had hit home.

Only for the expression to falter and his eyes to narrow on Athara. The fear clenched tighter as Athara's own flash of fear and anger reached him. This time, when the Emperor spoke, his words were clear and pointed. This time there was no subtext. No hidden messages. No clever twists. Just a simple, direct reminder of their place.

"You may be  _loyal_  to  _my_  apprentice," he said bluntly, all subtlety discarded. "but do not forget, young Athara Adyé, that you serve  _my_  Empire." Had it not been for his vocorder, Vader would've been unable to breathe.

Yes. Palpatine  _knew_. He knew a great deal more than Vader wanted him to know.

How could he have been so irrational to believe otherwise…

But all was not lost, he reminded himself firmly. He was certain Palpatine couldn't sense the full potential hidden within his little apprentice, just as he was certain the calculating light in his Master's eyes meant that the Emperor saw more value in Athara's future at his side than threat.

For now.

He stepped forward, laying a hand on his apprentice's trembling shoulder. He could sense her own feelings building, fear and anger of her own struggling against her control. Now was not the time.

"Yes, My Master," Vader said quietly, responding for them both, despite it very much not being the response he'd prefer to give.

But someday.

Beneath his palm, he felt Athara begin to rein herself back in, his silent reminder to contain herself the nudge she needed.

Yes. Someday, together, he and his apprentice would see the end of the Emperor.

As though in challenge to his silent, secret resolve, Palpatine leaned back, his lips curving into a barely perceptible smirk.

Someday, he reassured himself. Someday.

And until then?

He would protect his apprentice the best way he knew how.

He would teach her everything he could.

And if he could do that?

Beneath his mask, Vader felt his lips curl in a determined grin.

She would survive.

And Palpatine would rue the day he threatened his little girl.

That, Vader would make sure of.


	32. The Long Game

Emperor Palpatine leaned back in his throne as the large doors on the far side of his throne room slid shut behind his apprentice and the girl. He traced absent patterns on the smooth metal of the armrest as he sank into thought.

That had been a most curious encounter. He wasn't above admitting when he was impressed anymore than he was when intrigued. And Athara Adyé? She had managed to do both.

Sure, he was also harbouring a seething fury that his apprentice dared try to hide things from him, but as this was a potentially useful bit of leverage to have, he was able to restrain the urge to act on Vader's duplicity. He played the long game, after all. Patience was arguably his greatest strength.

But this girl…

His apprentice believed he didn't know the significance. Well, intrigued and even impressed as he was that Vader had demonstrated some skill in subtlety, he was still more disappointed on the balance.

He hadn't even changed the girl's family name when he left her on Nubia. Did he really think Palpatine wouldn't recognize it? Obviously he'd considered it, as Vader hadn't told Palpatine the girl's family name directly, but had he really believed he wouldn't eventually find it out? Did he really think Palpatine wouldn't investigate the child? Her history on Nubia? It was clear Vader hadn't stumbled upon the girl on Nubia as the towering young Sith had claimed.

He'd found her on Naboo. With her mother. With Neva Adyé.

On a mission Palpatine himself had sanctioned.

More than that, Vader seemed to have forgotten that he'd already confessed his suspicion that the Nabooian woman had ties to his former Master, Obi-wan Kenobi. That she'd disappeared nearly the same time the Jedi had was curious but alone, meant very little; a lot of people had left the Capitol or outright gone into hiding when he'd announced the formation of his Empire.

However, the security recordings from Padme Amidala's apartments had told a different story: the affection between Kenobi and Adyé had been clear. Palpatine smirked at the recollection. It seemed the prefect Master Kenobi had fallen to the same weakness as his apprentice, if only a few steps behind. The potential conclusions that followed were simple enough to make; either Adyé knew where Kenobi was or had even gone into hiding with him. And eventually, the answer to which it had been had become clear.

To then get word from his spies that Neva Adyé had resurfaced on Naboo to deliver her child? It had left only one conclusion and one alone.

She had gone with Kenobi into hiding and a child had resulted.

Foolish of Vader to think Palpatine wouldn't eventually make the connection between his little pupil and the aide who had haunted Amidala's apartments before disappearing along with one of the most wanted Jedi in the Galaxy. He was Nabooian by birth, after all; the name Adyé might not be widely known throughout the rest of the Galaxy, but Palpatine knew the name well, just as he knew how rare it was. Not to mention that the Jedi and his lady love had been foolishly sentimental enough to name the brat they made after Kenobi's barely remembered mother; there was little out of Palpatine's reach and even the well buried records of a Jedi's birth family weren't so lost as many seemed to think.

For a time, Palpatine had believed that his apprentice had done as he was bid and destroyed both the woman and the child—not that he'd told Vader the child would be there…or even existed. He'd anticipated the rage realizing his hated former Master had what Vader had lost would inflame would be too potent to contain. He had been confident his apprentice would not falter when confronted with ending a child's life.

He hadn't before.

And part of Palpatine fumed that he'd been wrong.

Yet…there was the potential that the development could yet be fortuitous for him.

At first his fury upon hearing the child's name when Vader began weaving his deception was so great, Palpatine had all but been tempted to kill Vader outright and give up on his long-held determination to have him as his apprentice. Vader was now diminished from the potential he'd had before Mustafar, after all, the leverage Palpatine had over his heart and soul non-withstanding. But still, Vader was what he needed; capable, intimidating and ruthlessly efficient. And still powerful. Even diminished, Vader was still immensely powerful…to have that power under his thumb was a heady thing.

Once he'd wrestled his way past the rage-fuelled impulse to end his apprentice for his sentiment in keeping the child and his betrayal in lying about it, Palpatine had been able to consider the benefits and the value of the child—Kenobi's child.

Kenobi had been a powerful Jedi, so it stood to reason that his offspring would inherit at least some of his ability. And since he'd been unable to get his hands on Vader's child…Kenobi's was a potentially acceptable alternative.

Even if it meant leaving the brat in Vader's clutches.

Though, that did seem to be the most advantageous place she could be.

Even if it meant he lost the option to turn the child to his service instead of Vader's if he left the girl in his apprentice's care. Vader did have the uncanny ability to inspire an unbreakable loyalty in his subordinates, after all; a tendency that seemed to have survived his transition from Jedi to Sith. But it was a risk he would have to take, a gamble. It was entirely possible he was too late to turn the girl's loyalty anyway. What he'd sensed from her when he'd prodded and warned her over her loyalty to her Master had indicated the possibility.

It was unfortunate that she did seem genuinely limited so far as her Force sensitivity went, even if her spirit and intelligence were satisfactory. Not to mention she certainly seemed to have a strong mind if even he had trouble slipping through her thoughts.

But it frustrated him to no end that he couldn't be sure. There had been glimmers when he'd probed through her thoughts. Glimmers that he—loathe as he was to admit as much—couldn't deny could indicate there was more to the child than he had been able to discern even with his skill; it was an imperfect science, of course, to wade through another's mind, but he felt highly justified in the claim that no one was or had ever been better than he was.

He had deep reservations, though, that Vader would've been capable of teaching the child well enough to successfully thwart him. Vader had been taught himself, of course, and Kenobi had been proficient at the skill, but Vader had never been a great practitioner of the necessary mental discipline to master the ability to shield one's thoughts to a degree that would successfully keep someone of Palpatine's proficiency out.

It was part of why Anakin Skywalker had been particularly vulnerable to Palpatine's manipulations. With Palpatine able to infiltrate and know his mind as thoroughly as he had, the young Jedi had stood little chance. Especially trusting Palpatine as he had. He might have been able to keep the rest of the Order out for fear of betraying his little secret life with his secret wife, but his defenses had grown lax in Palpatine's presence.

Young fool.

So the idea that Vader would've been able to teach the girl to master a skill he himself had nearly disdained had it not been for the desperate secret he'd kept, was nearly laughable. But still…it wasn't a possibility he could afford to discount, unlikely as it seemed. Palpatine hadn't survived this long nor risen so far without being circumspect in the face of even the tiniest doubts. So in the highly unlikely chance that he was wrong—rarely wrong as he was in his ability to pick apart other people's minds, after all—he kept the possibility that the girl could be hiding more sensitivity than she appeared to possess safely tucked away in the back of his mind.

If only it were possible to get a sample of the girl's blood, to test for the midi-chlorians the Jedi swore by as indicators of Force-sensitivity. Unfortunately, though, his agents had as of yet been unsuccessful in doing any such thing. And with the test no longer being a standard and the child locked away on Mustafar for her training with Vader…the likelihood that he would ever learn her count was unlikely at best; not a method to be relied upon. It was probably for the best. He knew from his own experience that the Jedi's midi-chlorian tests weren't a perfect method of detection nor of gauging Force-potential anyway.

Regardless, the girl had the promise to be a great asset, not just as a new means of leverage over his Apprentice, but as an agent within his Empire. Strong in the Force or not, he sensed a great potential for Darkness in the girl, and under Vader's tutelage, she would undoubtedly flourish into just as efficient and ruthless an agent as he was.

Palpatine's fingers stilled on his armrest.

Yes, the potential value outweighed the risk when it came to the girl. So he would wait and he would watch as he was wont to do. It was his greatest strength, after all.

He would leave his Apprentice to train the girl.

And he would let her live.

For now.


	33. Going Flying

It felt like an itch beneath his skin. Something he couldn't quite shake. A familiar itch, one he'd been fighting since he was a child and he'd gotten his first taste for the marvellous sensations he knew he was craving now.

Luke was itching to fly.

They had been combing through the archives for days, searching for usable traces of Jedi lore that had somehow managed to survive Palpatine's purge. Even now, Athara was buried in a text that seemed to describe the ability to project one or another's presence and even inanimate things using the Force. Fascinating to be sure, but Luke's patience for academics was limited, even with the subject matter. Then again, he'd never had much patience for it. He'd always far and away preferred to be active. A trait he shared with his father, apparently.

He needed a chance to unwind. A chance to let go and clear his head. And one of the best ways to do that? Even having learned and mastered the techniques Ben and Athara both had taught him?

Flying.

And his trusty X-wing had even been unloaded from where it was usually safely and conveniently stowed in the lower hangar bay of the  _Flame_. He could even now visualize it where it sat next to the red corvette on the landing pad.

So with a murmured mention of his intention and a kiss to the crown of his wife's head, he slipped from the archive, smiling fondly at Athara's absent wave and muttered nonsense that he suspected was supposed to be an endearment or bid to enjoy himself, had she not been so engrossed.

Only to be waylaid as he stepped out of their quarters—zipping up his flightsuit as he did—by a squat blue and white droid and his little charge, newly woken from her nap.

Swallowing back a groan as he took in Ana's happy smile and the fists knuckling away the last bits of sleep from her eyes, he glanced off in the direction where he could sense Athara was still absorbed in their discoveries thus far. He was loathe to disturb her just now. And while the astrodroids were a godsend for keeping an eye on Ana while she slept or napped, they weren't nanny droids either, no matter that Artoo sometimes seemed to like pretending he was, fond as the old droid had become of Ana.

No. He was going to have to put off his flight, he realized with disappointment.

But then a thought hit him as he noticed the way Ana's eyes were brightening as she took in his flightsuit, immediately making the association that the garment meant he was going out to the X-wing she loved to look at and especially watch.

"You're goin' flyin'?" she asked, sounding faintly awed. He grinned and scooped up the little girl.

"That's the plan. But we have a problem." She frowned at his serious voice, already looking disappointed that she might not be able to watch the X-wing fly. "You see, your Mama is busy, which means you've got to stay with me." And she seemed to deflate in his arms. Unable to maintain his serious expression a moment longer, he bounced her in his arms, his grin returning. "So how would you like to go flying with me?"

He didn't have the words for how incandescently happy his daughter's face was as her Skywalker-blue eyes lit up and her mouth fell open in a startled, excited little 'o.'

"But," he said, stopping her before the toddler could begin chattering or even squealing in excitement, "this has to be our secret, okay? No telling your mother." Athara would kill him for even considering this…Ana wasn't even three, yet… Ana's pale head bobbed eagerly.

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered loudly, still working on grasping that it defeated the purpose if a whisper was anything but soft. It was simply too endearing, though. Grinning, excitement of his own building in his chest, he kissed the crown of her head and settled her more securely on his hip.

"Off we go, then," he said cheerily, earning a delighted clap from his daughter. "Coming Artoo?" The response he got roughly translated to an 'of course' with a warning that Athara would turn him into spare parts if she found out. Luke chuckled despite the nervous certainty that he was right about that. "I know, Artoo. She won't…yet." Because he knew her better that to even hope he could keep it from her for too long.

…now just when to tell her…that was another matter…

But he pushed the thought aside. Just now, he was taking his daughter flying.

And in that moment? He was more excited by that prospect than by the flying itself.

Up in the archives, Athara's head tilted and a fondly exasperated grin crossed her face at what she had just sensed.

…now, when to let him know that she knew…a scheming smirk curled her lips then as she began to contemplate how best to torment her husband over this.

…perhaps she would keep him guessing for a while…

This was going to be fun…


	34. Recounting the Family History

Orran couldn't help but smile as he watched his visiting niece and her family in the living room of his Naboo home. Skywalker sat on the floor next to their daughter, his face alight with adoration as he watched the little girl babbling away. And Ana. Little Ana. She was just precious. Curious and bold and sweet. The very image of her father, but with her mother's delicate chin and nose.

And Neva's smile. His own smile widened, glancing to his sister's daughter.

Athara? Well…Orran's smile grew fractionally thoughtful as he took in his niece where she sat on the couch across from him. Athara was positively glowing with happiness as she too watched her husband and daughter.

Seeming to sense a change in him—entirely likely, he mused with a faintly admonishing chuckle—she looked up to him then, her mild expression shrewd and unreadable as she levelly met his gaze, the faintest of grins tugging at her lips. And then her features grew nearly amused.

"Ana?" The cheerful girl looked up at the sound of her mother's voice, bouncing up to stand at her knee. Athara smiled fondly at her, brushing a few strands of her sandy hair back. "Didn't you have something you wanted to ask your Uncle Orry?" At once Ana brightened further and, almost as fast as Orran could blink, she had scrambled around the table and up onto the couch beside him.

"Can you tell me about my Nana Neva?" Orran was nearly speechless with surprise at the question. He glanced to the two Jedi. Athara merely smiled at him with nearly the same indulgent look she'd given her daughter while Luke shook his head fondly at Ana's antics.

Before Orran could vocalize the question he was struggling to form, Athara shrugged at him, somehow knowing what he wanted to ask. "You knew her. I didn't," she said simply. He couldn't argue with that. But he shook off the melancholy that had inevitably emerged at the thought and looked back down to the little girl who smiled up at him with his sister's smile.

"Okay, then," he agreed, "what is it you want to hear?" A small, thoughtful frown crossed Ana's face.

"Well, Gramma already told me she was a Queen just like she was, and that she met my Grampa Ben—he was a Jedi, just like my Grampa Ani and my mum and my Daddy—and she met him when she was a Princess of Th…Th…" she faltered, working to remember.

"Theed," Orran prompted gently even as he raised a brow at Athara. Gramma? He imagined that was who he thought it was. Athara smiled, nodding only once in confirmation. Ana grinned up at him

"Yeah! Theed. And that when Gramma went to Coruscant, Nana went too and that they were friends and Nana helped make Gramma pretty dresses." For a moment he thought she was about to launch into a tangent where she told him everything her grandmother had told her given how she'd already nearly gone off on other tangents, but she cut herself off, looking up to him expectantly. She was oblivious to just how endearing her excited recounting had been. "But I wanna know mo-ore," she pleaded. "I wanna know what she was like when she was little." Across the way, Athara sighed softly while Luke was stifling a grin as he glanced up to his wife. Orran could only chuckle.

"Alright, then," he soothed, curling an arm around his grand-niece and growing thoughtful as he pondered what to tell and how to begin. Ana took the gesture as an invitation and promptly made her way onto his lap; the perfect place for stories, he remembered fondly from his own childhood. "Let's see…well, our father's name was Brahm—he made dresses for our planet's important officials just like our family has done for generations—and your Nana's mother's name was Kira. She was a teacher, I think, and served on our village council. I remember my father saying that, when she was your age, your Nana wanted to design and make dresses for the Queen just like her Gramma did when she was all grown up. She even started apprenticing in our family's shop."

"'Prenticing? Like learning? Like I will with Mama to become a Jedi when I'm bigger?" Ana interrupted, looking to her mother for confirmation. Athara nodded but fixed her daughter with a firm look of admonishment for interrupting. Ana sagged minutely, but quickly enough was looking back up to Orran as he continued.

"Yes, she was an A-pprentice," he corrected gently, "I imagine just like you will one day, only to become a seamstress instead of a Jedi," he confirmed. "But then she was chosen by our education system's aptitude tests as having the potential to become a talented politician, and she joined…"

And enthralled, Ana listened intently as he told her everything he could remember about her Nana Neva.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I'd love to hear what you think!!


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